


Autobiographia Literaria

by manykinsmen



Category: Mad Men
Genre: 70's ideas of mental health, 70's ideas of queerness, Discussions about the Holocaust, F/M, Implied abuse, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Newly-wed Stan and Peggy, OT3, Post-Canon, Post-Finale, at this point Ginsberg's radio is practically a character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-07-23 08:17:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16155182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manykinsmen/pseuds/manykinsmen
Summary: Almost two years after he's carted away in an ambulance, Ginsberg is discharged into Stan Rizzo and Peggy Olson's care.





	1. We'd like to know a little bit about you for our files

Stan’s thirty-eight minutes late to pick Ginsberg up. He comes into the reception a little out of breath. “Sorry – I got a little lost.” He’d had the map upside down at one point. He’s never had much excuse to be upstate before and the roads are unfamiliar. He glances around the otherwise empty lobby. It’s not like a doctor’s office or a hospital waiting room. The seats look comfortable, if not especially new, their brown leather slack but not scratched. “Uh… I’m here for Michael Ginsberg?”

The woman on the desk is old; Miss Blankenship old, a coil of obviously dyed orange hair poking out from beneath her hat. She passes Stan a clipboard of paperwork, offering him no help with filling it out. She doesn’t look up from the paperback doubled over in her fist, not even when she ashes her cigarette into an empty coffee cup on her desk, then buzzes him through with her elbow in a single, practised movement. She nods her head to a door on the left, eyes still glued to the pages. “Frank’ll see you through.”

Frank, the orderly awaiting through the door, is built like a bouncer and has an expression to match. “Glad somebody’s finally taking the twerp off our hands. Ain’t no cure for being an asshole.”

Stan’s a big guy in his own right, but he doesn’t feel much like formulating a response. Frank leads him through the corridors and though it’s a large building with many patients, they only pass other orderlies and the occasional stressed looking nurse. “Jesus it’s like a ghost ship,” Stan mutters.

Frank shrugs. “Most of them have treatment this time.” He stops them in front of room 209. Though the walls are painted a cheerful shade of yellow, the doors are reinforced. Frank spends a moment fiddling with his keys before the door groans open. “I think they sedated him. Usually do. Makes leavin’ easier. Hey Ginsberg, your ride’s here!”

The room is… Fine. It’s nicer than Stan had imagined. There’s a sink but no mirror and a window with a view of the yard. The bed has a cheap, metal frame but it’s not a prison cot. Ginsberg is lying flat on his back on it, shoes on. There’s no way those clothes were ever his, even if they’re still too big. His sweater is a plain, duck-egg blue and his pants tan corduroy. The shoes are brown too, but somehow don’t match. They probably all came out of a donations box. He’s clean shaven and they’ve cut his hair closer to his scalp than Stan had ever seen it.

“Mhmm?” He opens his eyes, but they don’t look like they’re in focus.

Stan helps him sit up, the get to his feet, unsure about whether Ginsberg even recognises him. His arm slides around Ginsberg's rib cage to keep him steady as he walks. He was always skinny, but even so he feels fragile like a bird in Stan’s grasp. Stan could lift him like a small child.

After he gets Ginsberg into the passenger seat, Frank hands Stan Ginsberg’s suitcase. It’s painfully small, more like a briefcase, and weighs nothing. Stan’s not sure what would even be in it. God, he thought there’d be more fanfare than this. That there’d be something, at least.

Ginsberg’s head rests against the window, lolling a little with the motion. For the first hour, it’s just Stan alone with the trees and the too-big wide open landscape. Then he cracks and puts the radio on. And here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson, Jesus loves you more than you will know… He sings along under his breath. He’s never been much of a singer, but he can carry a tune with only a little bit of growl.

“Stan, where’s my dad?” Ginsberg yawns. Blinks one, twice, long and slow. Were his eyes always that big?

Stan takes his eyes off the road. “At home. They wouldn’t release you to him because he’s too old. You’re gonna live with me and Peggy for a while, remember? We said in our letters.”

“You and Peggy?” Ginsberg pauses, his mouth moving like he’s literally chewing the idea. “Oh yeah. You got married…” He settled back down against the window. “I didn’t get you a wedding present…” He yawns again and is soon asleep.

-

Ginsberg comes round slowly over the journey, chatting with Stan about what happened to SCDP, in the end, even if he’s still quite drowsy. He shows Stan what’s in his suitcase. It’s three paperbacks (Dostoyevsky, Aldous Huxley and Enid Blyton, the last one sent by a friend of Morris’s from the synagogue) his toothbrush and the clothes he arrived in, less the shirt.

It’s dinner time when they arrive back at the apartment and Ginsberg still too full of drugs to seem anything other than calm. Peggy kisses him softly on the forehead and shoves a bowl of stew into his hands. He doesn’t finish it, but eats enough to satisfy both Stan and Peggy’s anxieties. “You’re a good host Mrs. Rizzo.”

“Ms. Olson,” Stan corrects, smiling properly for the first time all day.

Ginsberg smiles back at them in response, touching the side of his nose. “Oh, I got you. Womanism.”

“Feminism!” Peggy cracks up, stretching a hand out to ruffle his hair before she realises it’s too short. Ginsberg leans into her touch and yawns again. “How much did they give you?”

“Eh, the usual. Stuff really knocks you out. I mean, it’s gotta.” His eyes are closed. He doesn’t see the look Peggy and Stan share. “Can I have a bath? I haven’t had a bath in… How long was I there…?”

“Eighteen months,” Peggy answers, her throat a little dry. She’s rounding down.

-

Peggy lets Stan watch over Ginsberg in the bathroom. It’s not that they don’t want to leave him alone it’s just they don’t want him to pass out and drown. Ginsberg makes Stan leave while he undresses, flinging his clothes out from behind the door. Considering he’ll see him in the bath anyway it’s redundant but Stan humours him.

“God, look at these things. Did they get them out of the garbage?” The sweater isn’t even comfortable. Peggy makes a face as her fingers come into contact with it. “Tomorrow we’ve got to get him something to wear. What did they do to his hair?”

“Same thing they do to everybody’s, I guess.” Stan shrugs. “You should probably go alone. He’s not even got a spare shirt.”

Peggy frowns, chewing on her lip in thought. “Yeah, no. He can’t wear your clothes out – and he’ll probably feel like crap when it all wears off.” She scoops up the cat and tickles his chin just as a hand appears around the bathroom door.

“Okay! You can come in now!”

She kisses Stan’s temple. “The drive must have been awful.”

He sighs, kisses Peggy’s cheek in return and walks into the bathroom, closing the door behind him, but not locking it. He sits himself down on the floor, leaning against the radiator. The water sloshes as Ginsberg moves his legs in the water. 

Finally, he lets himself look at Ginsberg – truly look. He doesn’t look well and that’s more than the sedative fugue. He’s paler than Stan remembers, his lips chapped, nails bitten down to the quick, and bruises scattered over his skin, some fresh and purple, some yellowed or brown with age. There’s a jagged, red scar where his nipple used to be. Stan didn’t know why he thought it might grow back. He sighs, running his thumbs over his own hands.

“Take a picture, why don’t you?” Ginsberg is grinning. At least he’s still got that attitude problem. “Didn’t know you were into that.”

Stan chuckles, flips him the bird and lights himself a cigarette. “I could leave you in here all alone and see if you do drown.”

Ginsberg shifts over to the side of the bath and stretches his hand out. “Can I?”

“Didn’t think you smoked.”

“It makes me calmer. Doctor Fulwood thought it was a good idea. No wacky tobacky though.”

He watches Ginsberg’s lips around the filter. It’s practised. This wasn’t a too-recent development. He takes the cigarette back. Cancer – better to die young than die old in the looney bin. He can picture the ad in his head. They pass a few minutes in silence, the cigarette moving back and forth between them until there’s nothing left and Stan flicks the butt out of the open window. 

“Thank you.”

“Hmm? Oh, I can get you a packet if you want. There’s a bunch in the kitch-”

“No. I mean thank you.” There are Ginsberg’s big eyes again, looking up at Stan all deep and brown like autumn and all Stan can do is stare back and pretend he can’t see Ginsberg’s flaccid cock. “You didn’t have to do this. You’re a couple of newly-weds and Peggy shouldn’t feel guilty…”

Stan folds his arms, his smile half-hidden behind his bead. “Ginzo, you’re important to us. You’re a friend – our best friend.”

“Oh.” Ginsberg yawns again and slides further into the water, looking like he’s going to pass out.

“Okay, I think you should go to bed.”

-

They’ve made up the spare room for him. No more thin, white sheets. No more single mattress. No more single pillow. He’s kitted out in his spare underwear and one of Stan’s old shirts. The material is practically swallowing him and he looks even younger. Peggy brings him a glass of water.

“Thanks Peg,” he mumbles, but he’s already drifting off, burrowing himself into the blankets. Peggy imagines his hair long again, curls in a halo around his head.

They put out the light and take themselves to bed, Peggy curling into Stan’s arms. “Thank God tomorrow’s Saturday,” she says, still very much awake.

“Good thing Don let me have Friday off.”

“Pssh. He knew what was happening. There’s no way he’d have made you come in. He’s not that kind of dick.”

“And you finished on time for once.” Stan nuzzles her neck, his breath warm on her skin. Peggy squirms under his touch and for a moment both of them consider it, but neither of them is truly in the mood.

“Stan, what did they do to him?”

“I don’t know Peg. I don’t know.”


	2. All you've got to do is call

It’s the sunlight that wakes Ginsberg – the first time at least. Even though somebody had drawn the curtains last night, they’re not entirely opaque and there’s a beam of light falling directly over his face. Given it’s mid-December, it’s not hot, but it is irritating. He blinks irritably, his head throbbing and his mouth dry and tacky, then turns over on his stomach. It’s uncomfortable, so he goes back to being curled in the foetal position, but with a pillow over his face to block out the sunrise.

The second time he feels like his mouth is full of dust. He’s no idea how much time has passed. It could have been hours, or it could have been minutes. He’s not entirely sure he actually slept. He remembers the glass of water, drains it, and goes back to sleep.

Third time’s the charm. It’s definitely not sunrise anymore, but there isn’t a clock of any description in this room, so Ginsberg rises from the bed like a man coming out of a coma. He tests a foot experimentally against the floor, cracks his neck, and makes himself upright. The boards creak as he moves. The bedroom is decorated as a nursery, little pink storks over the wallpaper and floral, lilac curtains, though the furniture definitely isn’t kids stuff. He catches himself, briefly – god, he’s in his underwear – in a standing mirror before he twists the door handle and escapes.

He promptly trips over something furry, which yowls and slashes its claws over his ankle, hard enough to draw blood. “What the fuck?”

“SPAGHETTI, NO!”

There’s a cacophony of noise: the stampeded of the cat’s paws against linoleum; Peggy banging a spoon against a frying pan; Stan’s rumbling laughter and Ginsberg’s own cursing, almost disembodied. As Ginsberg gets to his feet, Peggy is wrestling with an enormous, struggling, ginger cat that does not want to be put out onto the fire escape. It looks like a feral Maine Coon, Ginsberg has his money on Peggy, who eventually succeeds at putting the cat outside. It glares at Ginsberg from its perch outside the kitchen window.

Stan is still laughing, doubled over, his hands on his knees.

“Stan!” Peggy rushes over, fussing over the thin line of red trickling out of Ginsberg’s heel. In a blur of motion, she fetches a band aid out of a drawer and Ginsberg has his leg up on a chair as she sticks it to him. “I’m so sorry. Oh, he’s such a bad, bad cat.”

“… Why is your cat called Spaghetti?” Is the only thing Ginsberg can get out of his mouth.

“We were high,” Stan answers, his laughing fit dying down to a chuckle before finally coming to a stop.

He crosses the room and gives Ginsberg a big, bear hug. Ginsberg is painfully aware that he’s in his underpants and… A strange shirt… That seems to be a Texas Rangers shirt. It’s almost a nightshirt on Ginsberg, not quite long enough to entirely cover his briefs, but getting there. Ginsberg glances at the clock. It’s midday.

“You want some break- Well, I guess it’s lunch…?” Peggy asks. She’s cooking pancakes. “I know it’s late. We had a lie in too.”

“… Can I have some pants?”

 

-

 

Ginsberg ends up wearing a pair of Peggy’s jeans because Stan’s just will not stay up on his skinny hips. Now that the Valium has worn off, the come down leaves him feeling nauseous. He makes it through a pancake and a half before pushing the plate away. “Sorry. It’s really good, I just…” The heartburn arrives right on cue.

“No, no. It’s fine.” Peggy smiles, letting Stan wipe maple syrup off her chin. “Sorry your room has creepy wallpaper. We haven’t had a chance to decorate.”

Now that she mentions it, this is not the apartment Ginsberg has visited before. It’s bigger, newer and definitely doesn’t look like there’s vermin cohabiting with them. “It’s only a little creepy.” He shrugs his shoulders. He can hear raindrops pattering against the window outside. There’s a mournful meow from the fire escape.

“Can he come back in?”

“You’re too soft on him Stan.”

Stan pouts back at Peggy.

“Fine! But you’re cleaning the litter box later.”

“Didn’t take you two long to settle into this marriage thing, then? You’re acting like you’ve been married forty years, not four months.” With his head clear, Ginsberg has no trouble recalling the important stuff from their letters. He’d looked forward to them arriving on Tuesday morning – just from Stan initially, then after six months, from Peggy too, sometimes separate, sometimes shared. He wishes they nurses had let him keep them, but Myrtle really hated him.

Spaghetti pointedly ignores Ginsberg and sits himself down on the rug in front of the fireplace. Stan frowns apologetically “He doesn’t like new people.”

“He liked Joan.”

“Everyone likes Jo-”

“I know. I’m an acquired taste.” An awkward silence settles between the three of them, none of them quite sure what to say or how to act. Ginsberg bounces his leg under the table. Stan collects up the dishes. Peggy watches the rain falling through the window.

Peggy breaks first. “Morris is coming over tomorrow. He’s going to bring some of your things. He would’ve come today but-”

“But Shabbat. Yeah, I know.” Ginsberg chews his thumbnail. More than anything, he wants to see Morris right now. He wants to bury his face in his chest and let it all out. Instead, he manages to keep a blank expression, focusing on the sound of Stan washing plates behind him. “Was Paris everything people say it is? City of romance yada-yada?”

“The Eiffel Tower is overrated,” Stan hollers before Peggy can get a word in. “You know Eiffel hated that shit? Had dinner in the café there every night just so he didn’t have to look at it. Montmartre, now that’s where it’s at.”

Peggy pulls that sourpuss face she’s so good at. “You and your street artists. It was beautiful, thanks for asking. We went to the Louvre and the Palace of Versailles and I don’t think I’ve had such gorgeous food in all my life.” It amazes Ginsberg how quickly she could go from scowling to beaming.

“I’d have spent more time in bed, but Peggy wanted to be tourists.” Stan dries his hands and plants a wet kiss on Peggy’s cheek. “We’re taking you shopping.”

“Once Morris comes I’ll be-”

“Nuh-uh. My eyes still have scars from looking at what you wore to the office every day. And as much as Peggy’s jeans look good on you, she’s gonna want ‘em back.” Stan winks, making Ginsberg’s ears turn pink.

“Stan!” Peggy swats her husband’s arm playfully, then turns her appraising eye to Ginsberg. “Do you think he can go out like that? I mean… I was going to go alone but it’s hard to gage what’ll fit him by eye.”

Ginsberg taps his fingers on the table top. He can imagine housewives talking about their sons like this. Or Peggy talking about the cat. He’s become used to being stared at like a zoo exhibit but there is a new feeling churning in his stomach. “You really don’t have to…” He is quickly shushed.

“We’re in New York. They’ll have seen weirder. Besides, have you seen how kids dress these days? Ginzo, put your shoes on.”

 

-

 

Three hours later and Ginsberg owns more clothes than he has ever done before. Previously he had a dozen shirts, three pairs of pants and a handful of other stuff that he wore in any combination. Stan insisted he had things that actually matched each other. He’s now wearing a pair of his own jeans, a pale blue, without too much of a flare, and a cream turtle neck. It’s so soft the he can’t stop rubbing the end of his sleeve between his finger and thumb.

“I think this is the best you’ve ever looked, haircut aside.” Peggy hums in agreement, letting them back into the apartment.

Ginsberg brings a hand up to touch his hair. It hadn’t bothered him while he was in the hospital. Everybody had the same, unflattering uniform length hair. Now it feels wrong, almost prickly against his fingertips. He sighs. “They really fucked it up.”

“I don’t know. You had a real porn-star vibe going on for a while,” Peggy teases, as she flops down on the sofa.

He breaks out into a smile. “How do you know what a porn-star looks like?” Peggy gives him a coy look.

“Ha. Ginsberg in a porno. Hold on, let me enjoy that thought.” Stan sniggers like the dog in Wacky Races.

Ginsberg’s ears are turning pink again, and this time it’s worse. Stan catches his expression and his grin drops, his eyes trailing down him and onto the floor. “… Sorry, that was insensitive. Especially cause…” Stan trails off.

“You told him?” Ginsberg hisses, his voice harsher than he means it to be. Immediately, he mentally reprimands himself. What did you expect? They’re married. They’re Peggy and Stan. They tell each other everything.

Peggy twists her hands apologetically. 

“No, obviously you told him. You told him everything that happened – everything I said, right?” She repeats the gesture. Ginsberg sighs and sits down opposite Peggy while Stan leans against the door frame. “I’m sorry. This must be really uncomfortable for you two… I can go home tomorrow. I know you said they wouldn’t release me to Morris but they’re not exactly gonna check and I’m alright to-”

Stan shushes him. “Ginsberg, shut up. You had a nervous breakdown. You said and did a lot of weird shit. That’s okay. It wasn’t really you. We’re happy to have you here with us. We want you here with us.”

“I…” Ginsberg glances back and forth between the two of them, looking for even the slightest twitch on their faces. Finally, he relents. “Okay. Yeah, okay.”

 

-

It’s 3 A.M. and after twisting and turning for hours, Ginsberg finds himself in the kitchen, staring at the fridge. It makes a humming sound – all fridges do – but during the day when the traffic outside is louder and there are people moving around and other things going on, it doesn’t bother him. Now it feels like his ears are bleeding.

He opens it and closes it again. The fridge continues to hum. He isn’t sure what he thought it would do, but he finds himself repeating the action again and again, a minutes rest in between. A door creaks open somewhere behind him, but Ginsberg can’t tear his eyes away from the fridge’s white front. He’d taken his medication like he was supposed to. Wasn’t this meant to go away?

“Hey. Hey Michael, are you okay…?” Peggy’s hand is on his shoulder, but he doesn’t look at her. He can hear Stan in the bathroom. They’d been having sex but he’d been studiously ignoring it. Somehow it was much easier to forget about than the fridge. Peggy rubs her thumb against his cheek. “Michael?”

“It’s humming.” He opens the fridge again, stares into it for a few seconds and closes it again. By now he’s memorised the contents, which is mostly condiments. They really need to get some groceries in. He supposes neither of them has the time. He leans into her touch. Her hands are soft and smell strongly of sex and faintly of lavender. Must be some kind of skin cream. Then her hands aren’t there anymore and it’s just him and the fridge again.

The humming stops abruptly. He blinks, shakes his head and brings the room back into focus. Peggy is on her knees in her nightdress with the plug in her hand. She’s removed it from the outlet. She stands up, brushing dust off the silky, white material.

“There. No more humming.” She kisses his shoulder – just a soft peck, easy, familiar. “Go back to bed.”

Obediently, Ginsberg pads across the floor back to his room. As he twists the door handle, he pauses. “It’s nice, y’know, when you call me Michael.”

 

-

When Ginsberg wakes the next morning, it’s to the sound of the Sunday morning breakfast DJ, his voice so near and so quiet that for a moment Ginsberg thinks there’s someone in bed with him. There’s a radio on his bedside table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still looking for a beta, if anyone fancies it. I'd appreciate your feedback. I haven't written prose in yonks.


	3. I can see ev'ry part, nothing hides in the heart to hurt me.

When Ginsberg rises on Sunday morning, Peggy and Stan are once again in the kitchen, discussing the defrosted contents of their freezer. Spaghetti has his head and front two paws inside an ice-cream container and is lapping exuberantly at the contents. Ginsberg pads out of his room in a pair of mint-green pyjamas, the radio tucked under his arm. He can’t quite bring himself to turn it off, so the musical stylings of Cher mumble through the room. Ginsberg doesn’t even like Cher.

“When did you even make all this soup?” Peggy holds a jar of suspicious yellow liquid up to the light. “Morning Michael.”

“I don’t know. That time you had the flu…? It’s probably still edible.” Stan raises an eyebrow at Peggy, then at Ginsberg “When did we stop calling him Ginsberg?”

“When he asked me to.” Peggy tips the soup away.

“Oh. Morning Michael.” His name sounds right in Stan’s mouth, somehow. Michael smiles and sets the radio down on the table.

“Sorry about your ice cream.” It doesn’t look like there was much else of importance in the freezer. More jars of soup. A pack of beef mince that has seen better days. “… Do you guys actually eat normal human food?”

Peggy shrugs, makes an executive decision and swipes everything into the trash. Stan looks mildly offended. “Hey! I’ll have you know I’m an excellent cook… When I feel like it. I’m Italian, ain’t I?”

The radio changes over from Cher to playing the new Bond theme. Peggy and Stan bickering fades into the background as Michael turns up the volume and closes his eyes. He’s always liked Shirley Bassey but this song is so big and beautiful and perfect. He doesn’t talk back to her – he doesn’t have anything to say that’s more important than the gleam of her voice. He finds himself leaning on the kitchen counter, hips swaying in time. It’s over too soon, the DJ saying he isn’t sure how he feels about it. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. How can you not like that?” Michael snaps, before realising Stan and Peggy aren’t arguing anymore.

-

There’s some caveats to Michael being allowed back into society. Stan shows him the paperwork they gave him. It’s not quite the same as getting a look at his file, but he’s sure they didn’t intend for him to read it. Medication, obviously, that was a given, but nothing regular – just the sedatives in the event he has another episode. A therapist too. Somebody called Dr. Mayhew that he has to see twice a week, on a Monday and on a Thursday, in some office a couple of subway stops away. The rest of it reads like a care and feeding manual.

“Michael is prone to both paranoid and grandiose delusions as well as auditory hallucinations consistent with manic state manic-depression… Shit this guy’s handwriting is awful.” Dr. Hirsch seems to have written this part. Michael likes him far better than Dr. Fulwood – he was keen to hear what Michael had to say and more interested in the mood swings than other stuff. He also didn’t resent that fact that he was a Jewish loud-mouth. “In depressive state, he displays neurotic behaviours, low self-esteem and is prone to self-harm. States and symptoms may overlap.”

That all felt fair. Stan and Peggy nodded along, although Stan’s attention is definitely drifting. He’s clearly read through it already. Peggy is deep in thought. “Okay. You’re not schizophrenic then?”

“They say I’m not. They don’t know anything really.” Michael’s eyes travel further down the page. The handwriting changes. “Michael is also a latent homosexual, which is the subject of many of his fixations in both manic and depressive phases. Whilst progress has been made with his manic-depression, Michael continues to deny this.” He grimaces. This is all Dr. Fulwood was interested in the whole time he was there. Getting Michael to admit his homosexuality so that they could put him through those treatments as well.

Peggy drums her fingers on her knees. Stan has found an interesting cobweb on the ceiling.

“I’m not. I’m not a homo. Do I seem like a homo?” Peggy’s mouth starts to open. “Don’t answer that! Rhetorical question!” Michael sets the papers down on the coffee table, fuming with anger. He folds his arms. Was that it? The best part of two years summed up in five sentences, all of it crude guess work and some of it libellous. His face falls. “I’m not. Really, truly, I’m not. I hope you don’t think that of me.”

Shirley Bassey’s voice sputters out of the radio, even though it’s switched off. Liar, she says in that deep, brassy tone of hers. Liars are forever. Michael shakes it off. He knows it’s not real. It’s all in his head. Besides, he likes girls plenty – he likes Shirley Bassey plenty – especially when they’re all dolled up with a slinky dress and lipstick and huge, fluttering eyelashes. Peggy in that little green number. Peggy in her wedding dress in those photos they took away from him.

“We don’t. You said some weird stuff. You did some weird stuff. It wasn’t you – we know you better,” Stan says in that heartfelt tone he has, his expression soft around the eyes and mouth, even under all that hair.

Except it was Michael running his mouth like always, talking without taking half a moment to censor himself and he still finds himself looking at those broad shoulders thinking about how Stan could lift him so easily, hold him so tight. He chews his lip and looks at the clock. It’s almost 2PM. Morris will be here any second.

Right on cue, there’s a knock at the door.

-

Morris has a bag of Michael’s things: some clothes (Peggy and Stan share a look), a few books, records and a yellow, corduroy, stuffed lion with buttons for eyes. In lieu of having fur for a mane, it has a series of bright orange triangles that might be repurposed bunting. Its stuffing is heavy enough that it would make a decent paperweight.

“I can’t believe you brought Leonard,” Michael chuckles, lifting it out of the bag. He turns its head to look at Peggy. “I’ve had him since I was five. He was the first thing I didn’t have to share. He immigrated from Sweden with us.” He passes it over to her in all its wonky, several times repaired glory.

“I can practically see baby Michael.” She sits the lion down in her lap. Spaghetti hisses at it and hops into Stan’s lap in response.

“I have some photographs of Michael…” Morris roots around in the bag a moment and produces a photo album. There’s a stack of papers tucked in the back, threatening to spill onto the floor. The cover is dark green silk, a little battered, like everything that had come out of the bag so far.

“Awww, seriously. You’re going to show them my baby photos?” It’s playful. Michael is stifling a smile. Stan leans over to get a better look.

The first photo is of a frighteningly thin, morose looking child in clothes far too big for him (a coat with too-long sleeves and shorts that come down past his knees) and an oversized cap. It’s black and white and taken outside the front of a building with snow on its roof. Beneath it is something resembling a class photo. There’s about thirty children, both boys and girls, all of them a little grubby and dressed in hand-me-downs. The eldest looks to be fourteen or fifteen, the youngest is a babe in the arms of a nurse. Michael is in the middle of the pack, not looking at the camera but gazing off to the left.

“This is the orphanage. In Östersund. I went there looking for any record of my family… But there were none.” As he turns the page, his sleeve rides up and everyone gets a look at the number printed on his forearm. 15212. Peggy looks away, feeling a little sick, relieved that Michael doesn’t have a matching tattoo.

On the next page, there’s the first photo of Morris and Michael together. This time Michael is better dressed – he’s wearing a shirt and V-neck sweater and some full length trousers. He is holding Morris’s hand with his right, Leonard dangling from the other. He’s smiling, but looks more confused than anything. “Michael didn’t speak any Dutch, and I only spoke a little Swedish. We learnt English together.”

The next few pages of photographs are all of trains and boats, sometimes with Michael in them, sometimes without. The Statue of Liberty looms in the background of the last one. Before Morris can show them anymore, the papers tumble out of the back and onto the floor. Peggy gets down on her hands and knees to pick them up. They look like official documents, but most of the are in Swedish.

“What’s that?” Stan asks, scratching Spaghetti under the chin.

“Oh. Michael’s papers. You should keep hold of these.” Morris unfolds Michael’s adoption certificate, giving them a rough translation. “Mikael Benkow – that’s Michael – and Maurits Ginsberg – that’s me.” It’s dated February 20th 1949.

The next one is Michael’s birth certificate. Mikael Anders Benkow, born in Ekne, Norway on January 2nd 1944. The names of both parents had been left blank.

“Your birthday is the day after New Year?” Peggy asks, surprised. Stan isn’t. He already knew.

“I don’t know, they made it up. They had no idea how old I was. The year might be wrong.” Michael picks at a loose thread at the end of his sleeve. “And Ekne means Falstad. That’s the camp I was born in. I don’t remember how I came over the border into Sweden. I was about two when I came to the orphanage. That’s what they said anyway. They made everything up. My mom probably didn’t name me that, if she named me anything at all.”

Morris goes back to showing them photos of Michael as a child. There’s one of him with no front teeth, a few from his bar mitzvah, some graduation photos from Columbia. His framed degree appears out of Morris’s bag. After an hour or so of chit-chat, Stan and Peggy excuse themselves to buy groceries, leaving Michael alone with his father for the first time in a very long time. Morris wraps his arms around him and Michael cries and cries and cries.

-

Later that night, after Morris had left, the three of them drink red wine in the living room and dance around to Beach Boys LPs. Well, Stan and Peggy dance. Michael just sort of sways, watching the two of them galivanting. They’re beautiful together. Their matching rings glint gold in the lamplight. Stan sits down first, takes a joint out of his pocket and lights it. He doesn’t offer Michael any.

Out of breath, Peggy flops down on the sofa, her head in Stan’s lap and her feet in Michael’s. She surges upwards, catching Stan’s lips with her own and deftly sneaking the joint out of his fingers while he’s distracted. Michael’s thumb presses into the arch of her foot, her stockings velvety against his skin. She sighs around the spliff, puffing out a little smoke as she passes it back to Stan. Encouraged, Michael does it again. “Mhmm. You can pay your rent in foot massages.”

“Hey!” For a moment, Michael panics that he’s overstepped and pulls his hands back into his lap, chastened. He’s always been bad at gaging which behaviours are normal and which weren’t, but Stan breaks into a goofy grin. “He pays us, not you. You don’t get them all.”

“Who said you could stop?” The tone of Peggy’s voice does things to Michael. If he flushes pink at the ears, it’s hard to tell with all the wine. Stan is kissing her again, the two of them making out like school kids and Michael does as he’s told, feeling like a voyeur. They’re drunk, he tells himself.

-

He can hear them having sex again – loud, obnoxious sex that goes on for hours. Even the radio on low under his pillow isn’t enough to distract him. He suffers through it until the midnight DJ clocks out and the 4am guy clocks in, then breaks and jerks himself off, quick and rough, trying to keep his mind on Shirley Bassey. He fails miserably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to be accurate about what exactly's going on with Ginsberg's mental health but also be true to the limited grasp of the time period. If there's one thing I can't stand it's inaccuracies in my work. Let me know if you spot one.


	4. It's easy if you try

He doesn’t sleep. Even the orgasm can’t get him relaxed enough. He spends an hour or two trying to read but the words don’t organise themselves correctly in the translation from the page to his head. As the sun starts to come up, he hoists himself up onto the windowsill, letting the faint glow wash over him as he gazes out into Manhattan. He must look like a ghost to anyone watching – his veins thick and blue; his skin may as well have been fish scales like those albino trout they talk about living in underground lakes – though at this hour and on the sixth floor, there’s nobody watching but pigeons.

 

When the radio lets him know it’s seven a.m., he gives up and goes to make breakfast. Peggy and Stan aren’t up yet, so he puts the coffee on and pokes about, looking at the food they have in. Their grocery shopping has been pretty extensive; Michael is pretty dubious about whether or not all these vegetables are going to get eaten. In the end he decides on eggs, scrambling them in a frying pan as the house’s other occupants come round to consciousness. He never used to eat breakfast, before the institution, but their strict timetables had got him into the habit.

 

Spaghetti winds his way around Michael’s legs as he cooks, purring and nuzzling his face into the back of Michael’s calf. “Get lost. It’s not for you.” Spaghetti is impervious to Michael’s comments, likewise, the half-hearted kick of Michael’s bare feet.

 

 _Rrr-rrow._ Spaghetti’s mouth is wide open and pathetic. _Wehh-eh._ He twitches his ears and paws at Michael’s pyjamas. “You’re only sucking up to me because I have food.” _Mrrrp. Mrrrooooooow._ Michael’s not sure what they feed Spaghetti, but he takes pity enough to put down a saucer of milk. It’s hard to tell if Spaghetti is fat or just one of those cats that’s naturally fluffy and enormous. _Nyyyyaaaahhhh_. Regardless, Michael’s never seen anything move so fast.

 

He’s putting some toast on when Stan yawns from the doorway, his arms stretching wide enough to fill it entirely. Stan is just wearing his boxers and doesn’t seem to care about Michael’s stare.

 

“Smells good.” Stan’s eyes are still heavy-lidded and he seems hung-over. He sidles up to Michael and gives him a peck on the temple, looking over the pan. “Seasoned too? Wow. Didn’t know you could cook.”

 

Michael shrugs. If he said anything now his voice would crack. Is this supposed to be some kind of test? He bites his lip and only allows himself to breathe once Stan has moved in the direction of the coffee pot. Stan comes back with a mug of coffee – lots of milk, just the way Michael likes it. He still remembers.

 

“Chief?” Stan ambles back over to the doorway of his and Peggy’s bedroom. “C’mon. Up. Work time. Mikey’s made eggs.”

 

There’s a noise that Michael imagines a wildebeest might make followed by Peggy, in all her morning glory, appearing beside Stan, hair all over the place, last night’s mascara having migrated down her face and her nightie barely on. She’s a gorgeous train wreck. Stan practically carries her to the table as Michael dishes up. Spaghetti, having now finished his milk, camps out under the table and meows for more, licking up any breakfast fallout.

 

Peggy drinks her morning coffee black and bitter. She doesn’t say anything until she’s made it two-thirds of the way down her mug, then she finally manages “good eggs” before she disappears into the bathroom and the shower starts running.

 

Stan’s a little more personable, feeding Spaghetti a leftover crust while he pours out some kibble. “You didn’t have to make breakfast.”

 

“Eh. Gotta make myself useful.” John Lennon is playing on the radio. It’s too early for that kind of meaningful garbage. Michael retunes it to something else. Some kind of interview. He starts collecting the dishes for washing.

 

“Don’t forget about your appointment.” Stan’s got his concerned face on again, which is undermined by the visibility of his nipples. Michael’s trying not to look too much, not to seem like he’s studying Stan when he looks over at him. For someone with that much hair on his head, there’s not as much body hair as you might expect, which suggests that Stan might prune, for lack of a better word.

 

Michael rolls his eyes. “Sure thing, Ma.” He starts scrubbing the frying pan.

 

“STAN? WATER’S HOT. ARE YOU COMING?”

 

Stan breaks out in a big old grin. “Duty calls.”

 

“You newly-weds are disgusting.” Spaghetti mrows in agreement.

 

\--

 

Michael’s appointment isn’t until midday. In that time he cleans the entire kitchen, and the bathroom, and reorganises the bookshelves so everything is in alphabetical order because it’s driving him crazy. He makes his own bed, then thinks about how Stan and Peggy’s bed probably isn’t made and lets it itch at him for thirty minutes before he goes in and makes it for them. God, is this how housewives feel? He’s already climbing up the walls.

 

He’s never really thought about what he wears before. He used to just reach for the first thing and shove it on but now he feels like he’s supposed to think about things. Part of this whole being a functioning member of society deal. In the end he settles on a nice, thick, orange cable-knit sweater. Can’t argue with a sweater. Plus, it’s cold.

 

Dr. Mayhew’s office is a couple of subway stops down. He’s so twitchy. People are looking at him, even though they’re not. He can feel eyes burning through his clothes, even though nobody knows him; nobody cares. The secretary is too nice and reminds him vaguely of Megan with all the sincerity drained from her. He waits outside the door marked Dr. R. Mayhew for twenty minutes before he’s allowed in.

 

“I’m sorry… I’m looking for Dr. Mayhew?” The woman in the office is probably forty-something, with long, block gray hair she leaves down and big, round glasses.

 

“I am she. You must be Mr. Ginsberg. Make yourself comfortable. Would you like a drink?” She gestures to a chaise-long.

“Michael.” He sits upright on it, stiff as a board, his hands clutching at the edges. He’s always hated these things. Why do you have to lie down to talk anyway? “No.”  


“You can call me Rosalind. Or Dr. Mayhew. Whichever you prefer.” She sits down in the armchair opposite and gets out her notebook, one of those sleek, black leather affairs. Everything about her screams avant-garde and polished. She probably likes French cinema. “You should probably take off your coat, Michael.”

 

He does as he’s told, shoving the coat on the floor somewhere. It’s easier if he does as he’s told, in his experience. He doesn’t want to give this woman any reason to send him back. His eyes dart about the room. He drums his fingers. Was he supposed to just start talking? What about? On the inside, they usually told him what they wanted to hear about.

 

Silence persists for a good two or three minutes. Michael feels like he’s under a microscope. He breaks. “What am I supposed to…?”

 

“What do you want to talk about, Michael?”

 

“Honestly? I don’t. I want to pretend this didn’t happen and get on with my life.”

 

She shrugs her shoulders and gets up, moving to organise some papers on her desk. “Then I can do nothing for you Mr. Ginsberg. You’re free to go. Enjoy your six months to a year of freedom.” She’s not looking at him.

 

Michael’s eyes fixate on the silver disk swinging from her neck as she moves. He swallows, but doesn’t move. Another minute or two passes. She stops what she’s doing, picks up her notebook and sits back down in the armchair.

 

“The fact that you’re still here suggests you do want to deal with this. So I’m going to be honest with you, Michael. This is hard. You don’t just walk it off. The likelihood that you’re going to end up back in a sanitorium, or in an even worse position, is high. This isn’t the kind of thing that ever truly goes away. But I am an excellent psychiatrist and a number of people have a great deal of faith in you. Certainly Mr. Sterling does. He is paying for this, after all.”

 

“Who- What-?”

 

“Mr. Sterling is paying for your care, I believe because of your former position at Sterling Cooper and Partners. You weren’t aware?” She writes something down. “No matter. You are now.”

 

Michael doesn’t really have it in himself to say something. He’s too busy processing.

 

“You’re going to have to get used to talking to me. I’m not going to treat you like a baby, but I appreciate we can’t just throw you in at the deep end. So let’s start with something simple. How was your weekend? And do lie down. You’ll have a bad back if you insist on sitting like that for all of our appointments.”

 

Michael does as he’s told.

 

\--

 

He’s surprised at how early Stan and Peggy make it home. It’s just past six and Michael’s been making dinner. It’s nothing especially fancy or difficult – just pasta and some sauce, but Peggy gasps like he’s made a roast dinner.

 

“It’s like having a maid.” Stan grins, helping himself to a big portion.

 

“I get bored. If I didn’t have all this time on my hands you guys would still be eating takeout every night.”

 

Peggy smiles sweetly as she plates up for herself. “Thank you for making dinner. You’re being a real darling. How was your appointment?”

 

Michael takes a moment to think. Honestly, he’s not sure if his appointment went well or terribly. “She’s… She’s good at what she does. I don’t know. We’ll see.” He waits until last to get his own food. “Why is Roger paying for it?”

 

“Roger’s paying? I thought it was Don.” Peggy looks genuinely puzzled. “He said he’d sort it out. I don’t know. Roger’s retired, technically. Maybe it’s coming out of what was left over when Cooper died.”

 

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m broke as shit. My savings got burnt through pretty fast. They can pay if they want too.”

 

They’re more relaxed about their dinner arrangements, eating in the living room while Peggy and Stan bitch about their day at McCann. Michael’s never been that bothered about TV. This is much more entertaining.

 

“They don’t think I have what it takes to direct a commercial. Can you fucking believe it? _But you’ve never directed a commercial._ Guess what? Neither has fucking Smitty. And who’s directing the commercial? Smitty. I was art director at Sterling Cooper. Art. _Director_. Clue’s in the name. If I don’t get to direct a commercial soon I am going to have to start marking my territory.”

 

“Shouldn’t have taken that demotion,” Michael quips between mouthfuls.

 

“Yeah, but I was all _in looove_ at the time.” He elbows Peggy playfully who can’t contain her laughter. “It’s alright for some. You’re still copy chief.”

 

“You say all this like you _want_ to spend more time with Harry Crane.” She elbows him back.

 

“Don’t tell me the upsides. I’m bitching.”

 

“At least you guys get to work. I’m itching to do something. I’m going to go see if the library wants a volunteer tomorrow because I can’t clean the house again. I might be crazy but I am not a crazy housewife. Plus your vacuum doesn’t work.” Michael drips sauce on his shirt. He’d taken the sweater off hours ago. “Aww, dammit. I gotta wash this now. Tomato stains.”

 

He acts before he thinks, pulling it over his head, leaving his bare chest exposed. He shoves it in the sink, which he runs full of cold water, then sits back down and continues eating. It only occurs to him what he’s done when he realises that Peggy is staring. She clears her throat.

 

“Does it hurt?”

 

He touches the scar without meaning to. “Not anymore.” Michael tries to smile, but his eyes give it away. “I’m just missing a bit… I should put something else on.”

 

“You don’t have to. It’s only a matter of time until you see Stan’s cock. Hasn’t he tried to convert you to naturism yet?”

 

Michael almost snorts wine out of his nose.

 

“I saw your cock the other night and I didn’t say anything.”

Michael doesn’t flush this time, feeling much more relaxed. “Peggy has a cock?”

 

“HEY!” She’s laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write something a bit lighter after the last chapter. There's still a few bits and pieces in here with a heavier subject but I think everyone needed a bit of an emotional break.


	5. I think that we should get together

Michael does, in fact, go down to the library the following morning. He’s itching for something to do in those long, lonely hours between Stan and Peggy leaving for work and returning home. He calls a repairman for the vacuum before he leaves. There’s crumbs all over the floor and he keeps stepping in them. Even Spaghetti’s determination to eat everything remotely edible had left them alone. The cat lounges on the sofa with his eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of the nearby radiator.

 

“Behave while I’m gone,” Michael calls as he puts his gloves on. Spaghetti doesn’t acknowledge him.

 

Outside it’s cold as balls. It’s been snowing on and off for the last few days, but nothing has stuck yet. Michael can see his breath in the air and jets of steam coming up from the subway vents. He breathes into his palms, trying to get some warmth going, before burying them in the pockets of his coat. It’s windy too and he’s briefly glad that his hair is shorter than normal and he doesn’t have to worry about looking like a walking bird’s nest when he arrives.

 

Ernest at the desk looks him up and down, squinting hard, his glasses on a wire round his neck. He must be seventy-five, and even Michael’s honking Brooklyn vowels have to be dialled up for him to hear. He’s small and frail, with wiry white hair growing in tufts, almost exclusively around his ears. “What? Your name’s Ike?”

 

“Michael. MI-CHAEL.” Michael’s trying his best not to be rude. “I wanted to volunteer, y’know. To help out.”

 

Ernest glances over to the young woman behind him. “Carrie, what do you think?” Her ashy-blonde hair is kept off her face with a ribbon. She’s pretty, but dresses ten years out of date and like she lets her mother pick out her clothes. She trots over, her shoes clicking against the floor like she’s a show pony. He’s not expecting the Louisiana accent.

 

“Oh, I don’t know Mr. Dowd.” She looks him up and down in turn and a sweet smile tugs at the edge of her mouth. “Can you use the microfiche? I’m no good at it.”

 

\--

 

He looses track of time. It’s almost eight by the time he makes it back to the apartment and Stan is leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms folded. Michael freezes “Where have you been?”

 

“I… Uh… The library…?” He’s still holding the door open. He should shut the door, but he can’t work out how to breathe like a normal human. His eyes lock onto Stan’s and he flinches involuntarily.

 

Stan’s posture relaxes, he slaps his knees and he starts to laugh. “Christ, Mikey. I’m joking. You’re an adult. You can do what you want.”

 

“STANLEY RIZZO, YOU’D BETTER NOT BE TEASING THAT BOY,” Peggy calls out of the bathroom and Michael is somewhere outside of his body, watching all of this happening. He hears the door closing behind him and Stan grasps him by the shoulders.

 

“Hey, y’alright?” Michael blinks and falls back into himself. He nods. “Good. We’re gonna order Chinese. What do you want?”

 

\--

 

“So she’s pretty?” Peggy asks through a mouthful of noodles, batting Spaghetti away from her food in a swift, practiced motion. Stan offers the cat a strip of beef, which is quickly snatched from his hands and taken to the corner to be savoured.

 

Michael stops chewing. “I mean, I guess…” He’d spent the whole afternoon trying to teach Carrie how to use the microfiche, which was a frustratingly useless endeavour. Ernest had grinned at him the whole time, like he’d been waiting for someone else to take the task off his hands. Honestly, she didn’t seem particularly bright. “She’s blonde, thin. Nice to look at. Brains of a store mannequin, but that’s what you get, ain’t it?”

 

Stan gives Peggy a big wet kiss on the cheek. She rolls her eyes at him, sucking more noodles into her mouth, and carries on. “You could ask her for a date.”

 

“I don’t think I want that.” He pushes his food round on his plate.

 

“Why not? She’s pretty, you’re handsome… She won’t say no.”

 

“Peggy, he’s not ready. He needs some time-”

 

“Nah,” Michael looks up at Peggy, straight into her steely blue eyes, the warmth of her mahogany coloured hair framing her smooth skin perfectly. “She’s not my type. They’ve gotta be smart.” He smiles and looks away, taking a moment before he starts to eat again. “Anyway, you’re not my mom.”

 

The air comes back to the room and they’re laughing again, comfortable, just the three of them together. It makes Michael glad to be home, the way he hated to be before the institution. He feels like he lives here, rather than just exists. He finds himself absent-mindedly running his fingers through Spaghetti’s fur, enjoying the sound of him purring on the sofa beside him.

 

“It’s the Christmas party on Friday,” Peggy says, abruptly, and Michael sighs, thinking about the office and everyone there. He tries to remind himself it’s not the same anymore – not the same building or even the same name.

 

“Are you guys gonna go?”

 

“Are you kidding? Jim Hobart’s gonna string us up if we don’t,” Stan snorts, pushing his empty plate out of the way so he can roll himself a joint. “McCann takes its Christmas party so seriously you’d think there was money on the line.”

 

Peggy rolls her eyes. “It’ll be fun. You like parties.”

 

Stan sighs, mutters “Yeah, I do,” under his breath.

 

“Wanna come?”

 

It takes Michael a moment to realise the question is directed at him. For starters, he doesn’t typically get invited to parties. The reasons just keep rolling in on top of that. He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring, silently at Peggy before Stan taps him on the shoulder.

 

“Mikey, you with us?”  


He jolts. “I don’t work for McCann,” and shrinks into the sofa cushions. He flaps his hands ineffectually. Stan is looking at him like he’s a frightened baby rabbit. Peggy’s expression doesn’t change.

 

“They like us to bring friends, what are you gonna do? Stay here by yourself? That’s not fair.”

 

“I’m not good at parties – and everyone there knows I’m crazy. They were there, or… Or somebody’s told them or some shit. I don’t wanna spoil the night for you.”

 

“You won’t. Come on. Everyone wants to know how you are.”

 

“Peggy, you shouldn’t push him…”

 

“I’M NOT A FUCKING ZOO EXHIBIT.” Michael’s hyperventilating. He doesn’t know when he stood up and both of them are recoiling from him. He flees to his room and buries himself under the covers.

 

\--

 

He’s not sure how much later it is when there’s a knock at the door. He could hear Peggy and Stan fighting earlier and it’s all his fault. Fuck, he’s fucked everything up.

 

Peggy’s voice is soft and gentle through the wood. “I’m sorry Michael. I shouldn’t have pushed. You’re not ready, it’s okay.”

 

He doesn’t budge, let’s her think he’s asleep or whatever. He listens to the sound of her footsteps disappear, then the click of her bedroom door. Finally, he lets himself cry.

 

\--

 

On Thursday, on Rosalind’s chaise-lounge, he finally talks about it. Wednesday had been a little tense, even though he’d tried to shrug it off, the argument was still heavy in the air. He describes what happened to her, his voice wobbling a little. He’s staring at the ceiling rather than looking at her. It’s easier, to not look at her because he knows those stern, spectacled eyes will be staring back. She doesn’t look at the page when she writes in her notebook.

 

“I think you should go.”

 

He sits up and meets her gaze, then lowers himself back down sheepishly. “Whadda you mean?”

 

She repeats herself, her expression unchanged. “I think you should go to the Christmas party.”

 

“I’m not good at-”

 

“Michael, you just said that. It’s alright for you to be upset with Peggy, but it’s good that she pushes you. You don’t want to be surrounded with people who baby you. You want to get better and part of that means you need to stop isolating yourself. You said it yourself, everyone in that room knows what happened. What have you got to lose?”

 

\--

 

The thought keeps prickling at Michael for the rest of the day. When they come home from work, Michael apologises.

 

“I’ll go.”

 

Stan quirks an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

 

“I talked about it with Dr. Mayhew. She thinks it’ll be good for me.”

 

“Okay. But I’m picking your clothes.” Stan disappears into Michael’s room to do just that.

 

\--

 

The McCann offices are… Big. Michael feels like he’s walked onto the set of one of those schmaltzy Christmas movies. There’s an enormous tree, decorated so well that Michael just knows they hired someone professional. There’s paperchains and lights everywhere, little bunches of holly and mistletoe (and one already trashed secretary getting smooched). There’s so much to look at he doesn’t know where to look, his eyes darting around until Stan is steering him towards a group of people, some of them familiar faces.

 

“Merry Christmas. Peggy, you look stunning, as always. Stan.”

 

“Yeah, nice to see you Smitty. It’s been, what… Three hours?” Stan’s sour expression is mostly hidden behind his beard. Michael barely suppresses his laughter.

 

“And you must be Ginsberg.” There’s a hand coming towards him.

 

“Michael,” he shakes it, although he’s practically shaking himself. He’s never felt so anxious in all his life.

 

There’s a round of introductions. He remembers Ted, Scarlett, Meredith, Harry (god, stop talking) and Dawn. There’s some people he doesn’t know: Smitty, Kurt, some guy called Jack, a couple of other secretaries. He gathers that Pete and Joan both left, Ken was fired (doesn’t sound right) and Freddy Rumsen has retired. It doesn’t feel quite right, but the absence of Bob hits him hardest. He didn’t realise how much he missed him.

 

It’s surprisingly normal, or as normal as parties have ever been for Michael. A few times he can tell people are conspicuously skirting around what happened. He takes to saying “oh, you know, getting by” whenever anyone asks how he is.

 

“So, do you think he’s gonna make it?” Smitty asks, chipper as all hell.

 

“Don? Who knows. You know what he’s like.”

 

There’s a cheer from the doorway and someone starts to say “speak of the devil” before realising it isn’t Don. It’s Roger Sterling. “I thought he retired…”

 

Peggy shrugs. “He always makes the Christmas party. Some people are like that.”

 

Michael carries on drinking his whiskey. He’s being careful to watch how much he drinks. Rosalind had warned him, even if the doctors back at the institution had reckoned that, if anything, he should drink more. If he’s honest, he prefers wine, but this was what Ted had thrust into his hand and he’s doing his best to be less argumentative. People have been commenting that he seems mellower.

 

It takes Roger a good twenty minutes to make his way over to them. “Merry Christmas!” He kisses Peggy on the cheek. “Peggy, you look stunning.”

 

She does. Her dress is emerald green silk, her hair coiffed to perfection. She smells like dark fruits and witchcraft and it’s the sexiest smell Michael’s ever experienced. He doesn’t know how Stan keep his hands off her.

 

“Michael, good to see you.” Roger shakes his arm so hard it feels like it’s going to fall out of its socket. When his brain settles down in his head, he notices the older woman beside him. “This is my wife, Marie.” She kisses him on both cheeks like they do in Europe.

 

As Roger moves on to make the rest of his introductions, Stan leans over to whisper in Michael’s ear. His breath is hot on the side of Michael’s face. Maybe it’s the whiskey. “That’s Megan’s mom.” Michael struggles not to yell “SERIOUSLY?” and cannot prevent his eyebrow from shooting up. When Roger comes back round to him, he’s managed to straighten his face.

 

“Michael, your drink’s empty. Come get another one.”

 

He finds himself walking with Roger over to the makeshift bar, more of a bar-cart really. Roger starts pouring them a couple of whiskeys. Michael can’t contain it any longer.

 

“Why are you paying for my psychiatrist? I mean, thank you. I’m very grateful, I am broke as shit, but you didn’t have to do that…”

 

Roger’s smiling and nodding along, looking at the glasses while he pours. “Don asked me to find some funds in what was left over in Cooper’s share, so I did.” He put his hand on Michael’s shoulder as he handed him his drink. “I got some wake up calls a couple of years back and Marie helped with that a lot. But honestly, I felt real bad about what happened with Ken – you heard about that right? I needed to do some karmic restoration or some shit and you were there, needing help. Plus, I always kinda liked you. You’re weird and you’re a Jew, but I like you.” He claps Michael on the shoulder and steers him back to the group. “Now lets get drunk. It’s Christmas. Or Hanukah. Whatever.”

 

Don doesn’t make an appearance and the party eventually migrates to a bar a few blocks away. Michael’s aware he’s probably drunk more than he should already, but people keep giving him things and in spite of everything he thought, he’s actually enjoying himself. All the people he doesn’t know from McCann that just wanted to stare and gossip about him have gone home or gone somewhere else. Dare he say it, he feels pretty good. He gets up from the table to go to the men’s room. Everyone’s getting on for drunk. Roger is regaling everyone with a story about a lawnmower and Peggy and Stan are slow dancing by the jukebox, kissing long and slow and languid. He smiles, watching them.

 

Someone’s hand catches his wrist as the door bangs shut behind him. He looks up, suddenly feeling a degree drunker and sees Kurt at the other end of it. He tilts his head in confusion. “You want something?”

 

Suddenly Michael’s back is up against the wall and Kurt’s face is coming in towards his and there’s lips on his mouth and Michael can feel his skin flushing red and hot. One of his hands twists into Kurt’s shirt and the other scrabbles against the bathroom tiles. Michael can count on one hand the number of times he’s been kissed and he can feel Kurt’s stubble against his cheeks. Kurt grabs at Michael’s crotch, squeezing just hard enough that a little whimper gets out from between Michael’s teeth and Kurt licks it up greedily. Michael finally works out what he’s doing with his hands and slaps Kurt across the cheek before he knows what he’s doing.

 

Kurt hisses and pulls back, then chuckles, his lips curling into a grin. He runs a thumb over the smarting, red mark.

 

“What the fuck was that?” Michael’s voice is low. He doesn’t want anyone running in. Kurt’s thumb moves from his own face to Michael’s lips, all plump and wet and rosy and Michael’s trembling, pressing himself against the wall.

 

“You’re handsome. Let’s fuck.” Kurt shrugs his shoulders and puts his hand back on Michael’s crotch.

 

Michael would be the worst of liars if he said he didn’t find Kurt attractive. He’d snuck the odd glance or two tonight and despite the alcohol, his cock was stirring under Kurt’s attentions. “I’m not handsome. I mean- I’m not. I’m not a homo.” Kurt isn’t fazed. “I… This is insane. What are you-? Why?”

 

“You dress terribly. But you’re very pretty. Come home with me, we’ll get those clothes off you.” Kurt carries on kneading Michael’s crotch, moving to trail open-mouthed kisses up his neck.

 

“Stan picked this…” He can feel Kurt’s chuckle reverberating against his skin. He pushes at Kurt’s shoulders feebly. “I can’t- I’ve never…”

 

That gives Kurt pause. He lets Michael go, his expression dropped into that severe resting face of his. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.” He pauses, pressing his thumb to his own lip as he thinks and Michael is more aroused than he’s ever been in his life and shaking and clenching his hands so tight his knuckles are white.

 

Kurt takes a scrap of paper out of his pocket and scribbles something on it. Numbers. He unfolds Michael’s fingers and presses it into his palm. “For when you’re ready.”

 

Michael shoves it in his jacket pocket and bolts out of the bathroom. He moves straight for Stan, tugging at his elbow. “Can we go? I need to go. Please, I can’t stay here.” Stan nods. Five painful minutes later, they’re in a cab on the way back to the apartment.

 

“Did something happen?” Peggy’s asking. Michael leans into her, letting her comb her fingers through his hair. It’s starting to grow back, just a little, you can barely tell. Stan’s hand is on his knee, trying to stop it from bouncing at jackhammer speed.

 

“I’m not queer. I’m not, really.” His voice is squeaking like it did before it broke. “I don’t know what made him think that. I… Kurt, he…”

 

“Sshhh. It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault.” Peggy whispers softly and Stan is holding his hand as they lead him up the stairs back into the house.

 

Michael feels blurry in a way he didn’t earlier. He curls up on the sofa, barely persuaded to take his shoes and his jacket off. Peggy manoeuvres his head into her lap, still stroking his hair while he quakes. Stan drapes a blanket over him and Michael goes to sleep listening to Peggy’s humming as Stan sits down beside them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a lot more comfortable bringing pre-existing characters from the show back into play than I am writing new ones. So if it seems implausible... I didn't want to write an OC I didn't have to.


	6. May your days be merry and bright

For the first time in two years, Michael wakes up to a hangover. He groans, raising a hand to his eyes to block out the light coming in through the apartment’s wide open curtains. Even with his slightly blurry, painful vision, he can see Peggy to his left, swaddled entirely in the brown blanket Stan had given him last night, her legs tucked up under herself and her head resting against the arm of the sofa. Her heels are in the middle of the floor, but other than that she’s still wearing last night’s clothes. His head throbs and he turns to bury his face in the nearest thing, which is Stan’s armpit.

 

Spaghetti hisses his dissent from Stan’s lap, stretches all four legs and hops down. Stan grumbles, bats a hand in the cat’s general direction and pulls Michael further into the crook of his arm. Stan smells musty with sweat but rich and heady like the base note of Peggy’s perfume. There’s alcohol in there too. “Mhmm. Mornin’…” Stan’s voice is gravely, one eye opening before the other.

 

Michael starts to shuffle out of Stan’s space, but there’s nowhere to go and Stan’s pulling him closer. “Peggy’s such a blanket hog. C’mere. It’s cold.” He does as he’s told. Stan’s right. It is cold. Listening to the rhythm of Stan’s breathing it’s easy to just go back to sleep.

 

Later, he wakes to the sound of the television, Stan’s hand petting his hair affectionately as the news blares out. Nothing particularly interesting, just weather warnings – the snow is coming down hard outside and Peggy hands him a glass of water and an aspirin. He takes it without question, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

 

“Some party, right?” There’s a purple bruise blooming at the juncture between her neck and the top of her breast, exposed by the low-cut dress she hasn’t bothered to change out of. She’s still got the blanket round her knees, but the heaters have come on.

 

“Ughhh,” is about all Michael can manage for the next ten minutes while the aspirin kicks in. He makes no effort to sit up and Stan makes no effort to make him. Things start coming back to him slowly. The McCann offices… Roger… The bar… The bathroom… Kurt… “Jesus.” He straightens himself, then bends forwards over his knees and rubs his face. There’s stubble coming through. He reaches his hand into his pocket. Sure enough, there’s Kurt’s number, proof that it wasn’t just a strange dream.

 

Stan chuckles. “Kurt’s got some balls.”

 

Michael grimaces and throws the paper at the trash can. He misses by some margin.

 

\--

 

The next week is strange. Christmas isn’t normally something that bothers Michael, for obvious reasons, but Stan and Peggy actually decorate the house now that there’s no work to distract them. Whilst he gets the gist, Michael does need a few things explaining to him. Mostly why they’re going round to Peggy’s sister’s for Christmas dinner – and why he has to go. “I could stay here. Feed Spaghetti.”

 

Peggy’s arms are folded. She won’t be budged. “We’re going with you to Morris’s on Monday, so you’re coming with us to Anita’s.” It’s a make up dinner, given that with everything that was happening, Michael had just about missed Hanukkah. Not that he was that great at his religious observances or anything.

He calls Dr. Mayhew. He can’t see her physically for the next fortnight, so he has to make do with tugging the telephone into his room and closing the door for a little bit of privacy. Stan and Peggy crank up the record player while they decorate the tree, trying to give him space.

 

“I’m not queer. I’m not. Why does this kinda crap happen to me?” His voice is at a whisper, like Bing Crosby will tell on him. He’s squeezing Leonard with his free hand, self-soothing like he used to as a kid.

 

“Call me controversial, Michael, but what’s so terrible about being homosexual?” Michael stares at his reflection in the window, watching pigeons fuck on the next rooftop. The snow is thick on everything and every sound outside is muffled, like New York’s been sound-proofed.

 

“I- How can you ask me that? You know what they do to queers.”

 

“Yes, I’ve read your file. Dr. Fulwood wanted to put you in for conversion therapy, but Dr. Hirsch had seniority and overruled him.” He could hear her flipping through papers. “Barbaric, if you ask me. Tantamount to needless amputation. And Joe Fulwood is an idiot; I’ve worked with him before. Michael, I won’t allow anyone to put you through that.”

 

In the institution, Michael had seen men come back from their treatments for homosexuality – they walked around like zombies. There was a room in there that reeked of burning flesh, another the stank of vomit and Dr. Fulwood’s fingers were always itching for the ice-pick. He looms large in Michael’s nightmares. He swallows, blinking back tears. “Thank you. I don’t know, doc. I don’t know what I want.”

 

“Have a think about it. Try and be honest with yourself. I know it’s difficult. And don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”

 

\--

 

He makes it through Christmas day by the skin of his teeth. Anita is fine but Peggy’s mother drives him up the wall. She screams antisemitic at him before she even opens her mouth. Thank God he’s got Stan beside him, almost as much disapproved of for being Italian. Peggy makes tensions higher while Anita runs damage control. At least the food’s good.

 

“What about your family, Stan?” Michael asks on the cab ride back home. It suddenly occurs to him that he’s never asked. The driver’s Asian – Korean, he thinks.

 

“Dad’s dead. Heart attack, ten years back and good riddance. No idea about my mom, she ran out when I was a kid. I got an aunt I like and a couple of cousins. They live out in Dallas – came to the wedding.”

 

They have saved the exchanging of gifts between the three of them for the evening. Morris helped Michael earlier in the week – he’d never really had to get Christmas presents before – just a couple of books. It’s not much, but it’s what he can afford. _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas_ for Stan and _We Have Always Lived in the Castle_ for Peggy. He spent a long time getting the wrapping just perfect. The paper has holly and mistletoe on it and there’s gold ribbon around them.

 

Peggy gives Stan an easel and some supplies for painting, although Stan’s been pretending he hasn’t seen it in the airing cupboard for a couple of days. She gives Michael a black, leather notebook and pens and pencils. “For whatever you want… Doesn’t have to be ads, for once.” The pages are soft and more off-white than white, good, since Michael can’t stand cheap paper.

 

Stan has tickets to see that musical everyone’s talking about the next weekend and a new scratching post for Spaghetti, who is far more interested in the box. There’s mulled wine and chocolate and they fall asleep on the sofa, too tired and full of food to move, just like they did on Friday night. It’s perfect.

 

\--

 

Obviously, Don calls on the 29th. It’s Michael who picks up, Peggy deep in her book and Stan smoking hash and painting. Michael has been scribbling away in his notebooks, just throwing ideas out there to see if anything sticks. He finds himself lazily composing poetry. It’s not rigid enough to be anything else. “Rizzo-Olson residence.” He balances the phone in the crook of his neck as he writes.

 

“Ginsberg, it’s Don. Put Peggy on.”

 

Not two hours later, Don is standing in the doorway, Sally in tow behind him. His winter coat is full of snow and he has an apologetic bottle of wine in his hand. “I’m so sorry about his. The boys are out with Henry and Sally didn’t want to be in the house by herself.” He hangs his coat and scarf up on the hook and strides towards the kitchen table where there’s already reams of paper. Stan’s easel is being used as a flipchart, his unfinished painting propped in the corner.

 

“I was _gonna_ go on a date with Brian but Dad wouldn’t have it.” Sally’s older than Michael remembers her being and home from college for the holidays. She’s at Yale, he gathers, studying Literature.

 

Michael shrugs his shoulders apathetically. “We got Scrabble if you wanna play.”

 

“I’m game.” They can see them working from the coffee table where they set up the board. It’s an open plan space.

 

“Durex wants this in circulation at least two weeks before Valentine’s day. Which means we’ve got to finalise this so we can get things in motion when the office opens up again. How the hell do we sell condoms? I’ve pulled some examples from England, but this has never been done before in the US…”

 

It’s strange, not to be at that table with the three of them. He lets Sally go first. F-A-R-M-I-N-G goes down on the board. Michael runs a hand over his chin while he thinks. His moustache is starting to grow back. His face is cold outside without it.

 

“We don’t want to be too explicit. That won’t go over well. And we don’t want to be too medical either.” Peggy’s stating the obvious while her brain whirrs on the specifics.

  
“Well the target audience is men. Women aren’t exactly gonna buy them-”

 

“We don’t know that Stan. It’s not been done. We don’t want to close off too much of the market…”

 

Michael tries to tune it out, even if instinct is kicking in with ideas. He’s out of practice and out of work. Besides, Sally’s a worthy opponent and he has to concentrate to keep up with her. “So how’s Yale?”

 

“It’s okay. Some of them are too uptight but the classes are a breeze. My school teachers always said I was bright, I just needed to apply myself.” She looks over at the ashtray, Stan’s unfinished joint poking out of it, then back at Don. “He acts like I’m not eighteen.”

 

“Eh. That’s Dad’s for you.” Don isn’t listening, or acts like he is.

 

Half an hour later and they’re still going round in circles. Stan has started sketching Michael and Sally, Michael stretched out along the floor and Sally with her knees tucked up under her, both of them deep in concentration. He does it in full view of both Don and Peggy.

 

“Wait… That’s a good image,” Peggy says suddenly. “Make Michael a little younger and turn the board into something generic… Y’know. They’re young, but not too young. Legal but not married…” Stan’s ready with eraser, making the changes as she says them.

 

Michael groans as Sally drops X-E-N-O-N onto the board with the X over a triple letter score. “God, you’re a real asshole, you know that.” Sally’s grinning like the cat that got the canary and Michael’s got nothing. He tacks an S onto the end of a word half-heartedly, but there’s nothing else to be done. She’s gloating, silently. “Fine, you win. You this annoying in class?”

 

Don is studying the two of them, then sits up and slaps the table with his hand, commanding everyone in the room’s attention. “Durex: an end to your frustration. That’s it. Yes, that’s it. Peggy?”

 

She’s nodding. “Yeah, it’s good. It’s a wink and a nudge but it’s not explicit. Nothing the moral lobbyists are going to get too upset about.” She’s scribbling the tag line at the bottom. “You want to call and schedule a meeting with them?”

 

“Yes – don’t worry about it. I’ll do it when I get back home. Stan, keep hold of that. We’ll get the boards sorted first thing when we’re back. Thanks for this, both of you. Sally?” He’s fetching his coat of the hook when Stan suddenly looks up from his artwork.

 

“Do they want a commercial?”

 

Don pauses, then nods. “I’ll put you on it.” He wraps his scarf around his neck and shakes Stan’s hand. Sally kisses Michael on the cheek as she slips into her own coat. “Oh, Ginsberg. When you’re ready to work again, let me know. I could use a half-decent copywriter. These guys at McCann are hacks.”

 

Michael doesn’t have chance to respond before the door is closing behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some artistic license with the Durex campaign, but I think it does fit with the time. I was going to put another couple of scenes in but this chapter was getting long... You'll have to wait for the next one. Good thing I'm churning them out like nobody's business.


	7. Make me confused, mock me with praise

The day Stan has tickets for is January 2nd. The day after New Year and, incidentally, Michael’s birthday.

 

New Year isn’t much of anything for them. Honestly, Michael’s never understood the fuss and all three of them are rather exhausted. They have  some champagne in the apartment; Stan puts a party hat on Spaghetti; they watch fire works from the window. Peggy and Stan kiss at midnight while Michael makes jokes about kissing the cat, wondering, for the first time really, if he wants something like that- someone to share a cat with; someone to kiss on New Year. It’s not that he’s jealous, or maybe he is, but he’s jealous of both of them. They’re a beautiful couple, the best he’s ever known.

 

When he goes to bed, he churns over what Dr. Mayhew said in his mind. What is so bad about being homosexual? There are plenty of people like that, Michael even knows a few: Kurt for one; Joyce too, but it’s different for women; maybe Bob, but he isn’t sure, he just has a feeling. They all seem plenty happy, but then again, what does he know?

 

He jerks off lazily, the occasional firework going off outside. _Be honest with yourself._ He’s trying, but it’s all scrambled up in his head. There’s flashes of Kurt, his thumb trailing over his lips, and Stan painting in his underwear, and Bob when he turns his head just so… But then there’s other watching Joan disappear through a doorway and Megan on the TV and Peggy, god, Peggy in that green dress, that hickey on her collar. He comes, dirty and sick with himself but still somehow content, satisfied. He falls asleep faster than he has in a long time.

 

\--

 

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

 

Michael bolts upright in bed. There’s party streamers on his face and Peggy and Stan kissing both sides of his cheeks. “Jesus guys,” he rubs his eyes and pulls the sheets up over his chest. “I’m naked in here.” They’re both laughing at him, Peggy sitting on the end of his bed and Stan leaning over him to ruffle his hair.

 

“You’re such a prude, Mikey. I told you, we should all go naked in the house. It’s nature’s way. And I’ve already seen it.” Stan passes Michael a present, a very small box, the paper’s blue and orange striped. Inside there’s cufflinks, nothing too flashy, neat little silver roses. “To wear tonight.”

 

“Weird gift to get from a nudist,” Michael chuckles in response. “Thanks.”

 

As he dresses, the smell of pancakes wafts out of the kitchen. They haven’t at all been subtle about asking his favourite breakfast last night. Michael does have a sweet tooth. He sits himself down at the kitchen table and lets himself enjoy being pampered. He’s never much cared for his birthday before, but he has to admit it’s nice; even Spaghetti seems more affectionate than usual.

 

“I cannot believe you’re only twenty-eight. In what world is this okay? Stan, tell him.” Peggy whines while Stan cooks.

 

Michael shrugs. “Hey, it ain’t my fault. Take it up with the stars.”

 

“Chief, I’m a year younger than you. You’re the oldest one here.”

 

Peggy slaps Stan’s ass in response. “I told you not to bring that up ever again.”

 

“Wait, how old are you?” Michael’s never thought to ask. He’s realising there’s a lot of things he’s never asked.

 

“DO NOT TELL-”

 

“She’s thirty-two.”

 

Peggy whacks Stan on the back of the legs with a rolled up magazine, while he feigns upset. “Abuse! Abuse!” Michael is laughing his ass off. The first pancake burns.

 

\--

 

“You know, I’ve never seen a musical before,” Michael says as Stan straightens up his tie. Peggy is putting on that perfume again. The one that smells so good it makes Michael want to bite into her. Stan’s hands still, around the fabric, staring back into Michael’s eyes with confusion.

 

“Seriously? Not even _Hair_? Everyone saw that.”

 

Michael shrugs his shoulders. “Didn’t seem like it was for me. I’ve only been to the theatre once. It was an Ibsen. I didn’t like it – too stiff. Maybe it was the acting, I don’t know…”

 

Stan’s neatened up, looking less like a wild man than usual. He’s produced a waistcoat from somewhere and combed his hair and this has to be the best Michael’s ever seen him dressed. He didn’t realise people took going to the theatre as an excuse to get dressed up to the nines, but he’s into it. He’s a real sucker for evening wear.

 

He catches sight of his own reflection in the hall mirror. He doesn’t look bad himself. His hair’s a human length again and regardless of what Kurt says, Stan knows his clothes. He picked out a velvet jacket for Michael, ever so subtly blue. Michael doesn’t mind being dressed – prefers it in fact, he knows he looks ok. He’s pretty sure he's a bit colourblind anyway. He can never tell the difference between blue and purple.

 

“How do I look?” Peggy’s dress tonight is floor length and patterned with peacock feathers. Michael lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding.

 

“Immaculate,” says Stan, holding out his elbow for her. “Shall we?”

 

\--

 

It’s a Sondheim. _Company_ , the program says. He turns the page – there’s pictures of all the cast members with those fancy black and white headshots Michael used to see whenever he went to casting. Huh, no chorus. He flips over and there’s the crew. Peggy stills his hand.

 

“Sal? Oh my god – Sal Romano is the director?”

 

“Huh?” Stan’s leaned over too. Michael’s not entirely sure how he ended up sat in the middle.

 

“I know him. He used to work for Sterling Cooper…” The lights go down and Peggy trails off as the orchestra starts up. It’s a cacophony of sound that makes Michael jump, before he settles into his seat, hoping he’ll enjoy it.

 

\--

 

He does enjoy it. In fact, he cries a little at the end but in the darkness of the theatre, he gets away with it. Peggy and Stan both seem to have liked it too. Stan’s humming the title song to himself as they exit into the lobby. The crowd’s a little overwhelming. Michael clutches at Stan’s sleeve. He can’t see where the exit is-

 

“My, my. If it isn’t Peggy Olson?” The man from the program is staring them in the face, his teeth a wall of gleaming white against his tanned skin. He’s bigger than Michael thought he might be, tall and broad in a dark suit with slicked back hair. He’s old school handsome and leaning forward to kiss Peggy on both cheeks. Michael feels a pang of protectiveness and has to stop himself stepping between them. “And looking so gorgeous. Well isn’t this a surprise?”

 

“Sal! I haven’t seen you in years. How are you?” She returns the affection and Michael’s shredding his bottom lip.

 

“Never better, darling. And who are these lovely fellows?”

 

“This is my husband Stan and Michael…” She pauses just a little too long and Michael catches Sal’s eyebrow going up. “Our friend. It’s his birthday.”

 

“Well then, many happy returns. Salvatore Romano, but please, call me Sal.” Sal shakes his hand, his grip firm but his skin soft, bringing a cloud of cologne with it. “Peggy we must catch up. Have you eaten yet? Let me take you for dinner. My treat, seeing it’s Michael’s birthday. I just have a few things to finish up here. Give me fifteen minutes – there’s this wonderful Greek place a couple of blocks away. I know the owner. They’ll give us a table.”

 

Everything happens so fast that Michael’s not sure which way his head’s screwed on. Suddenly he’s sitting at a table and Sal is looking across at Michael expectantly.

 

“Huh?” He blinks the room back into focus.

 

“I gather you’re a copywriter too, then,” Sal repeats patiently.

 

“Were, past tense. I’m… I’m out of work at the moment.” Michael smiles apologetically. “Peggy and Stan are being very kind and putting me up while I sort some things out.”

 

“Oh. I’m so sorry. I know what it’s like to be fired. Ad men, they’re terrible, present company excepting.”

 

Michael shakes his head. He doesn’t feel like lying. “No. I’ve not been well. I just came out of a place upstate and well, you know, there’s not a lot of people that want a mental patient working for them. Don said he’d have me back but…” Peggy’s looking at him open mouthed and Stan’s brow is knitted with concern. He nods at them to let them know it’s okay.

 

Sal’s face doesn’t change. He nods sympathetically. “If you want my advice, get out of that game. It’ll be the best decision you ever make. These two are gladiators for sticking with it this long.”

 

Someone approaches their table and sits down in the empty seat. It takes Michael a couple of minutes to realise it’s the lead from earlier. He’s dark haired, thirty-something and looks exhausted. He leans over and pecks Sal on the cheek. “Sorry I’m late. I had to get out of costume. So, introduce me.”

 

“Sweetie,” Sal sighs. _Oh._ “This is Peggy Olson, we worked together at Sterling Cooper. First female copy writer in the office – she’s an incredible woman.” Peggy beams. “And this is Stan Rizzo, her husband, and Michael Ginsberg. This is my partner Cliff Miller.”

 

“You were _so_ good,” Peggy gushes.

 

“Incredible.” Stan nods his head in agreement.

 

“I’m glad you think so. I’ve been feeling so off my game with this cold. You order for me baby. I gotta take a leak.”

 

\--

 

After dinner, the owner keeps the place open just for them and there’s plenty of red to go around. It baffles Michael how easy and open the two of them are. The restaurant owner is clearly a friend and this a place of safety, but even so. Michael’s itching with questions and fortunately, Peggy’s asking most of them. “How long have you two been seeing each other?” Cliff rests his head on Sal’s shoulder.

 

“Coming up for a year. We started dating just after I cast him – trust me, he earned the part.” Cliff snorts. “Kitty and I had an annulment not long after I was fired. She was heartbroken, but I think she always knew, really… We don’t see each other much but she does send me Christmas cards.”

 

“We bumped into each other at the bar after the first read through. I wanted him the moment I saw him but then, you don’t know until you look over and the barkeep’s hitting on him.” Sal grins back at Cliff as he speaks. “It’s easier in showbiz. Folks are more understanding. All the doors are open just a crack. Doesn’t stop the costume girls from flinging themselves at him though.”

 

Michael’s hanging on their every word, almost forgetting his wine.

 

“What about you, Michael? Do you have someone?” Sal is asking and he’s so sincere.

 

“Hah. No. Dating’s… Dating’s not for me.” There’s a hum of concern in Sal’s throat as Michael looks down into his own lap. “I… If you don’t mind me asking, how did you know?” He can’t bring himself to raise his head.

 

Sal takes a moment. “I guess I always knew. There was just a point I stopped trying to bury it. And you know what, I’m happier for it. Getting fired was the best thing that ever happened to me. Except meeting Cliff, obviously.”

 

Cliff chimes in. “I was at Juilliard. I was dating this girl… Patty. I was such a lady killer in high school, you wouldn’t believe and Patty was great but then I had this tutor…” He shrugs his shoulders. “What can I say? I guess I go both ways. But Sal – he’s the one.”

 

“Both ways?” Michael’s head shoots up and he’s staring at Cliff, his eyes like laser beams.

 

“Yeah, both ways. I like women, I like men. There’s guys like Sal who aren’t into women at all and then there’s guys like me. Didn’t you know that?”

 

Everyone’s staring at him and Michael sinks back into his seat. “No.”

 

\--

 

When they get home it’s past midnight. Peggy and Stan head straight to bed but Michael fumbles about in the kitchen, making himself a cup of coffee to clear his head. When he gets to the bottom of it, he’s made up his mind. He flips through Peggy’s address book until he gets what he wants and dials the number. It rings four times. Kurt picks up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really motoring with this fic but I just keep writing it. Also, I've been dying to write an ending for Sal too. I wanted him to be happy. Also, Company is a great musical. You should give it a listen - the Raul Esparza version is A++.


	8. Fun house boy will steal your heart away

Kurt’s apartment is minimalist, verging on spartan, though gives off the impression that everything is terribly expensive. He doesn’t just have stuff lying around in the way that everyone else does and the books out on the coffee table seem to have been carefully curated. Since the last time Michael saw him, he’s cut his hair an inch shorter that most guys his age would dare. He’s wearing a plain white t-shirt and leather trousers and lounges like some kind of Adonis, cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, threatening to drop ash on the sofa. Despite the fact that Kurt is the same age as Peggy, he makes Michael feel old.

“I… Uh-” It’s January 9th, a week since Michael called, and the wait has been agonising. Even putting up with Carrie’s airheaded talk about soaps isn’t as torturous. It’s dark out. He’s told Stan and Peggy he was going to see Morris. The fact he’s lied to them feels worse than being here.

Kurt hands him the cigarette. “Relax.” He hangs onto the word the way his fingers linger against the back of Michael’s hand. His eyes are such a bottomless, dark blue, almost black in the dim light. When Michael fails to move, he pushes his hand up towards his mouth to help him. “Breathe.” He watches Michael intently as he takes a drag. They pass the cigarette back and forth until it’s finished, silent, except for their breaths. Michael blinks. When did they get so close together? He opens his mouth and starts to stammer his way through an apology, but then there’s a finger at his lips. “You’re frightened, but you came here because you need to know.”

Michael nods, teeth pressing into his bottom lip. Kurt’s hands are soft and immaculate. He resists the temptation to draw the digit into his mouth.

“Don’t apologise. Everyone has a first time.” He can feel Kurt’s breath against his ear. He can feel Kurt’s lips brushing against the skin behind it. He can feel his own knees quaking. Kurt pops the first button on his shirt and presses his thumb against the exposed triangle of skin. “If you want me stop, say so.”

He kisses him, softer than last time, slower, but deep, pressing him into the couch as he straddles him. He guides Michael’s hands to his waist and Michael can feel the muscle under the fabric, his body sinewy in all the places that Michael’s is bone. It takes Michael a moment to take the helm of his own body, to realise that he can move without being posed and truly, really touch someone, at last. He’s not sure if he moans or sobs as Kurt pulls his lips away, everything in him crying out for more, and for a second he’s certain he’s done something wrong.

But Kurt nips at his earlobe, a small, sharp pain to tether him, and grins, before he dives back in. Michael’s not sure how long they spend just kissing – it could be five minutes or five hours or five years – neither of them are in a rush to advance. Slowly, he builds up the courage to slip his thumb under the cotton of Kurt’s t-shirt and stroke the ever so slight jut of his hipbone. It’s an electric shock. There’s a rustle of fabric and suddenly Kurt is bare-chested and popping more of Michael’s buttons.

“I- Wait-” Kurt’s fingers pause at the last button, Michael’s shirt not quite splayed open. Michael pulls the top of his shirt together in his fist.

“It’s okay. I know about it.” Of course, everyone knows about it. How could they not? Michael’s grip tightens and Kurt lets go, sitting upright. Now he has a better view, he can see a deep groove just under Kurt’s stomach, a wicked looking red welt of a scar. Kurt pulls his hand to it. The skin feels tougher, worn. “My appendix. They did a bad job. Let me see?”

Michael sighs as he releases his grip and allows Kurt to pull the last button free. He turns his head. Kurt traces the absent nipple with his thumb, just for a moment, then his hands trail softly down the sides of Michael’s torso. Michael can’t bring himself to look at him – not as he pushes Michael’s shirt off his shoulders, not as he traces his collarbone, not as he maps the thin dusting of hair that traverses Michael’s chest. Michael’s almost painfully hard.

“Do you want to stop?” Michael doesn’t breathe. He shakes his head. 

Kurt takes the scar in his mouth, just for a moment, letting his tongue run over its ridges and Michael comes in his pants, his orgasm surprising both of them. For a second, nobody moves. Then Michael feel’s Kurt’s tongue run up all the way to his jaw in one wet motion. He shudders and pushes at Kurt’s chest. “It’s too much. I’m sorry-”

“I told you not to apologise.” Kurt wraps a strand of Michael’s hair around his finger and tugs, teasing it into a curl. “You’d make any man feel like a god.”

\--

The second time he visits, he’s honest about where he’s going. He comes clean about his lie, while he’s at it. Stan leans against the kitchen counter, his arms folded like a disappointed parents. Peggy is pouring over something for the Durex campaign at the table. Stan had only got up to pour more coffee.

“You’re going to see Kurt? Jesus Christ…” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “No. Terrible idea.”

Michael frowns, the skin between his eyebrows practically writing the words you’re not my dad. “Already been once. Last week. Y’know, when I said I was going to see Morris.”

“Seriously? Peggy! Back me up here. This is dumb. Tell him this is dumb.” Now Michael’s arms are folded, his coat bunching around his elbows. He glares at Stan and Stan glares back.

Peggy doesn’t look up from her notes. “It’s none of my business. Don’t involve me in your argument.”

“You’re kidding. Two weeks and you go from insisting you’re not queer to seeing Kurt fucking Smith? What’s Dr. Mayhew got to say about this?”

Michael’s face is turning red. He breathes heavily through his nose. He thought- He expected… Maybe he just didn’t think. He closes his eyes and tries to remember what they’ve been talking about in his appointments. About articulating his feelings. “She says they’re going to take it out of the DSM- That they’re going to vote on it… I don’t know. I don’t know, okay. I just… I’m trying…” The words won’t come out. “I’m going, okay?”

He leaves before Stan has a chance to follow up.

\--

When he gets there, Kurt’s playing a record that Michael briefly thinks is The Rolling Stones. After a minute or two, he realises it’s too weird even for them. It doesn’t sound like anything Michael’s ever heard before. Turns out it’s some band from Michigan. The Stooges, hell of a name. It’s choppy and strange, the singer practically screaming. At first Michael winces, but then after a minute or two, he almost likes it.

“It’s the future of music,” Kurt says, cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Michael believes him, but then it’s easy to believe anything when someone’s tugging you out of your clothes. The back of his knees collide with Kurt’s mattress as Kurt’s mouth collides with his. He’s frantic, pulling Kurt’s shirt over his head just as his own is being flung at the floor. Then Kurt hooks his fingers through Kurt’s belt loops, pulling him upright again. “No clothes in my bed.”

Michael’s sheepish, so Kurt undoes his own trousers and eases them off his body like a snake sliding out of its own skin. He’s not wearing any underwear and Michael gasps like somebody’s mother. Kurt’s cock fits the rest of him, smooth and long and slender. He cocks an eyebrow expectantly. Michael’s fingers struggle with his belt. There’s a tremor in him and Kurt reaches out to help him, sliding the jeans down over Michael’s jutting pelvis, all the way to the floor.

“Pretty boy.” Kurt’s voice is husky, his accent heavier somehow, as he pushes Michael to sit and gets down on his knees. He strokes Michael root to tip, pushing his knees wide open with his free hand. His thumb flicks over the head. It’s not difficult to get Michael there from half-mast, but Kurt’s fascinated by the lack of a foreskin and Michael is hiding his face with his hands until Kurt pulls them away. “No. Look at me.”

And then Kurt’s eyes meet his, deep, dark pools, and his mouth slides down Michael’s cock. Briefly, Michael thinks he’s having a seizure. It’s so intense that a deep, throaty moan is forced out of his lungs. His fingers twist in the white sheets, his hips bucking up into Kurt’s face. Kurt pulls back until just the head is in his mouth and Michael can feel the vibration of his chuckle. Then he can feel the air and Kurt’s lips just grazing him, his tongue flicking against the tip, the smallest kiss.

Kurt’s lips are wet and red and now Michael’s processing properly, he can see Kurt’s working his own cock in lazy strokes. Kurt blows a stray hair out of his face. He looks like Warhol’s best wet dream. Everything distorts. Michael feels like he’s existing two inches to the left of reality and Kurt’s lips, God… Kurt’s lips… His fingers squeeze at Kurt’s shoulders rhythmically. That record is still playing and his cock is leaking precum like a faucet.

“That’s it. Look at me. Beautiful, just like that.” Michael’s whole body tightens and tightens and tightens until there’s nothing left to give and then he’s coming, spurting over Kurt’s waiting mouth. 

He falls flat on his back and stares up at the ceiling. The record’s finished. The needle clips rhythmically, until Kurt lifts it off and flops down next to Michael. He licks his lips and leans over for a wet, messy kiss. He’s still stroking himself, but there’s no real purpose to it. “You enjoyed yourself.”

“I’m in bed with a German,” is all Michael can think to say.

\--

Stan doesn’t push the issue, but there’s definitely a fog of disapproval in the air every time Michael goes out. He catches the tail end of their conversation on his way back in. He’s quiet with the door, hoping not to disturb them if they’d already gone to bed.

“It’s good that he’s seeing someone.”

“But does it have to be Kurt? Kurt’s fucked half the guys in New York…”

“He’s experienced. He’s comfortable being with men. If Michael wants to explore that part of himself, I don’t see why it shouldn’t be Kurt.”

“What if he pushes him too far? What if he gives him something? Don’t look at me like that Peg. I’m concerned. I’m worried about him.” 

“Stan, you could say that about anybody. Michael’s not a kid.”

There’s a pause and Michael doesn’t mean to listen in while he takes his coat off, but he does.

“…Stan, are you jealous?”

“No. Obviously not.”

“I don’t know. It seems like you are.”

“Peg… Jesus, I was a kid. Let it go.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Peg, cut it out, okay. Just cut it out.”

Michael opens the door and closes it again, loud enough to stop the conversation, then trudges up the corridor. He can feel Stan’s eyes on him, moving over the hickey popping out the top of his collar. Thank fuck it’s scarf wearing weather. “I’m going to bed,” he mumbles. The apartment descends into a deep silence.

\--

“I hate them,” Kurt says, his arms curled around Michael’s waste. One snakes up and takes the cigarette back. They’re both slick with sweat. Michael’s not ready to go all the way just yet but he’s surprised just how intense fooling around can get. They’ve been talking about their childhoods, Michael’s in Brooklyn and Kurt’s in Hamburg. “Once a Nazi, always a Nazi. They made me go to the Youth meetings. It’s disgusting.”

Michael’s skin prickles. He can’t imagine hating Morris, he can’t imagine hating his mother, but it seems common for people to loathe their parents. What Stan said about his father flashes through his mind. He can imagine hating Nazis, though, and it’s a damn good reason. He wonders what Stan’s father might have been like.

“I moved out of their house when I was sixteen. I moved out of the country when I was eighteen. They can all go to Hell.” He passes the cigarette back. His fingers twist in Michael’s hair again. It’s back to the length Michael likes, and so’s his moustache. This time he’s grown a kind of goatee too, on Kurt’s advice.

“Do you miss them at all?”

Kurt’s mouth stills on the back of Michael’s neck. “Yes… But they hated me first. I couldn’t stay.”

His hand reaches down to Michael’s cock. Michael’s stamina’s better lately and sometimes he can even managed a second round. Michael squirms back against him, but his head is someplace else. Kurt strokes a finger down the edge of his face.

“You’re thinking about him.”

“Sorry… I… We sort of had a fight.”

“He doesn’t like you coming here.”

“No.”

“He doesn’t want you to fall in love with somebody else. But it’s okay. It’s just sex.”

“What- What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Come here. Kiss me.” Michael does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um... So, porn, yeah.


	9. And the damage done

By February, Michael’s climbing up the walls. Over the holidays, being out of work had been much easier but once Peggy and Stan and Kurt all go back to work, he’s spending far more time at the library or with Morris. Whilst the library gives him something to do, Michael’s clearly not meant for customer service and there’s only so much time he can spend with his father and his endless questions. He’s wearing holes in the floorboards, spending hours scribbling in his notebook, talking to Spaghetti – to the radio. To make matters worse, he’s becoming very aware that three is a crowd. Things have calmed down a little now that Stan is used to Michael seeing Kurt, but even so, the two of them must want their space. The storks printed on his walls remind Michael every day that he’s getting in their way.

 

He resolves to go back to work. He knows at least one place they’ll take him, he just has to make his mind up. Either way, being declared fit to work means a review, and a review means going back.

 

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Stan asks over breakfast as Michael’s dishing up fried eggs. Peggy groans into her mug and Michael pushes her hair out of her eyes.

 

“C’mon. I’m going stir-crazy here. I thought the point was for me to integrate back into reality or whatever they call it.” He can tell that Stan’s not convinced. He’s got that soft look in his eyes, the one that makes Michael need to sit down. “That places gives you the heebie-jeebies too, huh?”

 

“No shit.” Stan tucks into his food. “I mean, if you’re certain. I guess… See what Dr. Mayhew thinks first.”

 

\--

 

Three weekends later, the three of them are driving back upstate to Hudson River State Hospital. The drive itself isn’t bad. It’s rather beautiful in fact, with the light filtering into the car through all those great trees, but Michael can’t focus on much. He comes very close to taking a lithium tablet, then reconsiders. That wouldn’t look good.

 

“Is there anything less depressing to listen to?” Peggy asks. Stan looks up from the map to fiddle with the dial, but they’re only getting a clear signal on one station. “Ugh. This is the kind of song people string themselves up to.”

 

“There was a guy there for a while who slit his wrists with Martha Reeves and the Vandellas on the record player. If anything, people prefer to listen to upbeat things when they’re killing themselves.” Michael offers unhelpfully, chewing on his thumbnail.

 

Then the building comes into view. It looks like the setting of a Brontë novel, especially in the winter with bare branches shaking in the wind. “You weren’t kidding,” Peggy mumbles and Michael lights himself a cigarette, trying to dial his anxiety down a notch.

 

He’s finishing up as they walk through the doors. Myrtle looks up from her crossword and sighs, rolling her eyes. “Thought we’d got rid of you.” Her mouth is small and cruel, ugly beige lipstick on the brief flash of teeth.

 

“Love you too, Momma Myrtle,” Michael snarks back as she buzzes Dr. Hirsch to let him know his two o’clock appointment is here.

 

\--

 

Stan is called in first, which means that Michael and Peggy have to wait. They’re in some kind of lounge. There’s sofas and tables and chairs and a few patients milling about, under the hawk-like gaze of a few orderlies. Peggy’s scared to let go of Stan’s hand, but her presence is largely met with indifference. Two or three heads look up from whatever they’re doing – jigsaws, fiddling with the radio, staring into space.

 

Michael makes a bee-line for a black man playing chess with himself. “Terry!”

 

The man pauses, setting a white castle back down in the same spot. “Nice to see you, Mike. And you must be Peggy.” He shuffles his seat over, making room for them at the small table. His hands fly over the board, setting the pieces back to their starting positions. “You here for your review? Thought you’d be longer.”

 

He spins the board so the black pieces face Michael and extends a hand towards Peggy. It’s only then that she notices his right hand is missing the last two fingers. “Mike, you’re so rude. Terrance Whillans, Ma’am. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” She shakes it, gingerly. “Do you play chess?”

 

“No. I mean… Not really.”

 

“Aww. That’s a shame. Let me know if you fancy a game.” He pushes a pawn forward, smiling. He’s well spoken, maybe thirty-five and handsome, beneath a few scars. He catches Peggy staring at his hand. “I lost them in Vietnam – took a bayonet through them – but you learn to live without.”

 

Michael’s deep in thought, his chin resting in his hand. Eventually he moves a pawn to match. It’s a long time to dwell on such a simple move. Thirty moves in and Peggy’s not sure who’s winning. Both of them have a couple of pieces lined up beside the board. “Jeez, I’m out of practice.”

 

“You’ve been gone two months and you’re already forgetting everything I showed you. That’s check. I’d recommend moving that knight.”

 

“God dammit, don’t tell me.” Michael looks up and turns to Peggy. “Terry looked after me while I was here. He’s very kind.”

 

The question is itching in her throat and Terry’s laughing at the expression she’s pulling. “You want to know why I’m in here, right?” She blushes with embarrassment, but bites her bottom lip and nods. “I’m dead. We’re all dead. You’re not telling me I made it out of that place alive. This is just the waiting room.” He moves a bishop. “And that’s mate. You had me on the ropes there and you didn’t even see it Mike.” He moves the white queen a few spaces to the left, then pushes a pawn forward. “See, there. That would’ve been checkmate in two moves. You can’t see the wood for the trees sometimes.”

 

Michael sighs and sets the board again, spinning it round so that he plays white this time. Stan taps Peggy on the shoulder and she disappears into the room he’s just come out of. There’s movement in the lounge, patients coming in, patients going out. Terry remains where he is, but looks up from the chess pieces, searching for someone.

 

“Brandon, over here.” He pats the empty seat at the table. The boy that joins them can’t be more than eighteen, with tawny hair and a ruddy complexion that makes Michael think he ought to be running wild in a field somewhere. He has a smattering of freckles across his face and a suspicious look in his eyes. “This is Mike. I told you about him, remember. He’s back for his review… And that makes you Stan, right?” Stan nods. He presses a hand to his chest. “Terrence Whillans, Brandon McLoughlin.”

 

“I’m gone five minutes and you replace me, Terry?” Michael chuckles, pushing a knight forward. “You’re like what, sixteen?”

 

“Seventeen,” Brandon hisses, his eyes flicking up towards Terry for reassurance. “You watch your mouth.”

 

“Brandon, what did we talk about? You’ve got to keep a handle on that temper.” Brandon practically growls, his eyes on a nearby orderly who has his arms folded in Brandon’s direction. He slumps back in his chair, huffing.

 

“So what you in for kiddo?” Michael asks, eyes still on the board. Brandon doesn’t reply, his gaze focused on Stan, sizing him up. “Ahh, strong silent type. Gotcha.” He slides a castle across to take Terry’s queen, but his fingers are reluctant to let go and finish the move. He shakes his head.

 

The kid leans over, taking control of Terry’s pieces and pushing a knight towards Michael’s king. “You ain’t any good. Check- Aww, Christ have mercy. I thought I’d have five fucking minutes.” Suddenly Brandon ducks his head down. Michael reflexively glances over his shoulder and shudders.

 

Dr. Fulwood is much younger than Stan was expecting. He might even be younger than himself and Peggy. His tidy, blonde hair and confident posture remind Stan of a pre-Chevy Ken Cosgrove. Michael seems to shrink in his presence. Every footfall across the lounge is heavy and reverberates. “Mr. Ginsberg, we meet again. I do hope your review is going well.”

 

Michael breaks out in a forced grin, all teeth and panic. “Heh.” He knocks half a dozen pieces over with his elbow. Stan finds himself swivelling around, putting his legs between the doctor and Michael. Brandon has slunk so low in his seat he’s halfway under the table. Only Terry seems unfazed, setting the pieces back.

 

“Brandon, I believe it’s two-thirty.” He taps his watch, his tone even, face unchanged. “Come on. Up.” Brandon doesn’t move. A low growl comes out of his throat. Dr Fulwood takes hold of his arm and hauls him up.

 

“TOUCH ME AGAIN AND I’LL RIP YOUR FUCKING ARM OFF.” It’s loud enough that Michael’s chair scrapes across the floor as he pushes himself away from the table. Stan grabs hold of Michael’s sleeve reflexively. There’s orderlies bearing down on them – Frank and two other men far bigger than waifish Brandon. For a minute, it’s a standoff.

 

Terry sighs and looks over at Brandon. “Boy, you’d best do as you’re told.” There’s some kind of silent conversation, a movement of eyebrows, and then Brandon is getting up, shrugging Dr. Fulwood’s hand off.

 

“Just… Just don’t touch me. Okay?” He’s flanked out of the lounge.

 

“Very sorry about this Mr. Rizzo. Brandon can be quite explosive. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Dr Fulwood, thankfully, leaves.

 

The room breathes an audible sigh of relief. Terry frowns, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That boy. I swear Mike, he’s worse than you were. He’s already done a couple of stints in solitary.” Terry looks across at Stan. “I’m doing my best to curb him but… Well, you saw.” He turns his attention back to the board. “It’s your move.”

 

Michael’s always pale, but somehow looks even whiter. “Huh?” He blinks a few times and Stan can see his hands shaking, clenching and unclenching. He moves a pawn but Stan can tell he’s not with it. “Poor kid.”

 

“Stabbed his father eight times,” Terry says too casually.

 

Stan’s eyebrow shoots up. “Jesus…”

 

“Sounds like he had it coming but that’s no excuse now, is it?”

 

\--

 

He’s trying his best to contain it, but by the time it’s Michael’s turn to talk to Dr. Hirsch, he’s still visibly rattled. He jitters in the squeaky, leather armchair, it’s cushion wheezing air in the way that only something that’s forty years old can manage. Dr. Hirsch pushes a glass of water towards him and Michael holds it with both hands, but doesn’t drink.

 

“So what’s the prognosis Doc? Am I fit for work?” Dr. Hirsch has a kindly face, deep wrinkles around his mouth and eyes and a head of thinning grey-going-white hair. It calms Michael, slowly.

 

“Well, your guardians seem to think so. But what do you think, Michael? Are you intending on going back to advertising?” He clicks his pen, his scrawl illegible across the lined papers. Maybe they taught doctors how to write in chicken scratch at medical school.

 

“I… I guess so. I know that Draper will have me back, at least.” He sighs, finally slumping into a more comfortable posture. “It’s the kind of thing you’re meant to tell your boss. But then who’s gonna hire you? I’m in a real bind about it, ain’t it?”

 

Dr. Hirsch nods, still scribbling. “There are always other options.”

 

“Like what? Work in a store? I’m not made for that. This is what I can do. Y’know, something I’m good at that someone actually wants to pay me for.”

 

“And you’re not worried about going back?”

 

He pauses, thinks. The thought of going to the Christmas party had brought him out in cold sweats. He’d gone through every iteration of joke, insult, whisper – even the thought of being thrown out. None of them had happened. At least, not to his face. Not in a way he couldn’t handle. And it was nothing he hadn’t heard before the nipple incident, back when he wasn’t certified insane. At least he didn’t have to tell anyone about it. “I think I’m going to be ok.”

 

“What about the computer? McCann is a much bigger company than Sterling-Cooper – more corporate, more technological… Is that going to be a problem?”

 

“I…” He thinks about the fridge. The hum. Sometimes the ringing of telephones or the knocking of the pipes or the noise of a lift or a subway car or anything. The city is so loud. Always singing to him, always trying to say something. Even when he pauses, has a cigarette, clears his head and knows it isn’t, something scratches at him. “There’s ways to cope. And Stan and Peggy will be there. And the radio.”

 

“Hmm.” That noise doesn’t sound good. Dr. Hirsch taps the end of his pen against the desk and scribbles some more. “I think we should try you on some regular medication. How are the lithium tablets? How often do you take them?”

 

“I… I try not to. I’ve taken them a few times… Maybe once every couple of weeks.” Dr. Hirsch doesn’t seem satisfied.

 

“Let’s try them once daily. That should help with your anxiety and impulsiveness, although there has been a marked decrease in that according to your guardians, but I would think that would come back up again in a work environment…” It’s more like he’s thinking aloud than talking to Michael. He rifles through one of his drawers for something and brings out a bottle of pills. “Ah, yes. Thorazine. An antipsychotic. I’d suggest you take this with your lithium tablet. I think a relatively low dose would be good for you. Can you do that for me Michael?”

 

Michael frowns. He hated being medicated when he was an inmate. They made his head fuzzy, made him sleep for days and some gave him stomach cramps and night terrors and other, more embarrassing symptoms. He wrinkles his nose, but he knows what Dr. Hirsch wants to hear. “I- Yeah. Stan won’t let me forget.” He drums his fingers on the arm of the chair, watching Dr. Hirsch scribble.

 

“Alright. Well then, my assessment is you’re fit to work, Mr. Ginsberg. I’ll write you a prescription for Thorazine and then we’ll need to keep you in for observation overnight. It’s just a formality…”

 

Michael stops listening, his heart dropping through his stomach. He takes a breath, tries to calm down. It’s just one night. He can do it.

 

\--

 

Peggy and Stan get a motel for the night. Stan’s reluctant to go, but Myrtle won’t let them stay past five, hurrying them out the door before it’s time for dinner and medication. They can pick him up at midday tomorrow and not a minute earlier, she snaps, still angry at Michael for saying her hair made her look like a highland cow the first week of his stay. Myrtle can nurse a grudge like no one else.

 

When Brandon comes back to the lounge, he’s a lot more subdued. There’s a bruise blossoming against his cheekbone and dried blood under his nose. He slurs his words and threatens to punch Michael – makes a couple of swings too – but his movements are slow and uncoordinated. He passes out at the table an hour later. Michael sits him back up so his face isn’t pressed against the plastic counter. “Jeez, he’s gonna get himself killed.”

 

“You’re telling me.” Terry has been here much longer than anyone else who’ll actually talk to another human. The staff are, for the most part, no longer interested in him. “Fulwood’s trying to convince him that he’s a latent homosexual and stabbing his dad was a psychosexual act.” He tsks.

 

Michael says nothing for a long time, eyes travelling over Brandon’s face, then Terry’s, then the other men in the lounge. “I’m sorry I didn’t write… I don’t think I can stomach visiting, but I can write,” he says finally.

 

Terry bats a hand dismissively. “S’fine. Nobody ever does. I get it.”

 

“It’s not fine. I don’t wanna abandon you here.” He clutches Terry’s wrist with his hand. Terry pats Michael’s hand with his three fingers.

 

“It’s a test Mike. It’s only a test.”

 

They give him his first round of pills before bed. The room he’s staying in isn’t his old one, but for the most part they’re identical. They start kicking in as he’s brushing his teeth, a sudden wave of lightness, all the tension dropping out of his muscles all at once. He lies down on the bed in his undershirt and pants, eschewing the standard blue pyjamas they’d given him. The room spins and there’s a strange ringing in his ears. He tries to tell himself it’s probably just the placebo effect, but fuck, he’s gonna throw up-

 

And then he wakes up. He’s not sure what time it is but the sun is coming up and he’s shivering. He pulls the paper-thin blanket over himself. He’s not any more tired than usual, but it feels more like he’s time travelled than he’s slept. He buries his face in the too-hard pillow. There’s a bird in a tree outside singing its sun salutation and for once, it’s just that. It’s just a bird singing.

 

\--

 

“And there we go. That’s it Mr. Ginsberg, you’re free to work.” Dr Hirsch staples the papers together and files them away in his drawer. “Don’t forget your medication and your appointments with Dr. Mayhew. We’ll be checking up with her. Our next review will be in six months. That’ll most likely be a phone review, for everyone’s convenience.”

 

Michael smiles weakly, keen to leave. He pulls a cigarette out of his coat and steals a light from Peggy. He shakes the man’s hand and doesn’t say a word until they’re back in the car. Not when Dr. Fulwood waves to him in the corridor, not when Myrtle glares at him, not until they’re speeding off down the road and the building is disappearing out of the rear-view. Then finally he breathes and breaks, curling forward and sobbing into his hands.

 

Peggy is sitting in the back beside him. She rubs her hand over his shoulders, back and forth and back and forth. Michael leans over into her lap and lets her stroke the side of his face. “Hey. It’s okay. You’re here. I’m here. Stan’s here.” She presses a soft kiss to his temple. “You made it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was really hard to write. It's pretty heavy and I'm going through a depressive episode myself atm, so I hit myself in the feels really hard.


	10. Eight miles high and falling fast

Don Draper’s office is much the same as the last: desk in the corner with the windows behind it, bar cart against the wall, the smell of leather and tobacco and lavender air freshener. They’re forty floors up. It feels like nothing’s happened at all when Michael steps inside past the young, brunette secretary – that it’s 1969 again and he can undo it all. He catches his own reflection in the glass. He’s never been happy with his own appearance but lately it seems like he looks older. There’s no evidence to justify his suspicion, no grey hairs or crow’s feet, but he feels tired whenever he looks at himself.

He sits down when Don motions him to. It’s technically an interview, but both of them know it’s already a done deal. Coming into Don’s office used to feel like getting sent to the principal’s office. Michael doesn’t feel anything this time. Don offers him a finger of whiskey but Michael shakes his head. “Nah. I save it for special occasions.”

“And this isn’t?” Don pours himself a glass regardless, mostly out of habit, Michael reckons, for the weight of it in his hand. Michael shrugs his shoulders. “Welcome back. Hasn’t been the same without you, Ginsberg.”

“Mhmm.” Michael puts his book down on the table. He brought it mostly for appearances. There’s nothing in it that Don hasn’t already seen. He can feel Don’s eyes on him, examining him intently, as his own gaze drifts out of the window. He doesn’t need to look at Don’s face. It’s a strange thought, but he almost feels like he understands something about Don. He takes a cigarette out of his pocket. “You mind?”

“I didn’t realise you smoked.” The click of Michael’s lighter breaks though the quiet. He’s never seen Don look so surprised before, his mouth hanging slightly open, eyebrow cocked in confusion.

“So. You gonna bring me up to speed?”

“Ah- Yes. Well, let’s get right into it. McCann is a much bigger company, you’re aware, so there’s a lot of accounts to handle and a much bigger creative department. Obviously you’ve still got me as the head, Peggy as copy chief and Ted as art director… Other than that, we’ve got Stan, Mathis, Ed, Kurt, Smitty, Keith Willis, Ray Ortiz, Jack Percy and Annette Roper and half a dozen or so freelancers. You’ll be sharing an office with Willis.” There’s an unspoken acknowledgement that Willis’s office is the furthest away from Jim Cutler’s godforsaken computer you can get. “And your first account is this.”

He slides a folder across the desk. It’s some kind of laundry machine. Bosch. Michael’s sure he’s heard the name before, but almost thinks it was to do with car parts. He skims the first couple of pages. Oh, so it’s a dryer too. He finishes his cigarette, stubbing it out in Don’s expensive glass ashtray. “I can work with this.”

“Great. Let me walk you down to your office.”

Michael can feel eyes on him all the way there. He almost wishes Joan was here to hiss at the secretaries to have some shame and get back to work. Stan nods at him as they pass him in the corridor. Michael’s office is only a couple of doors down from the one Stan shares with Mathis. His secretary’s name is Maria. She has a fading Puerto-Rican accent and masses of dark hair trying desperately to escape from her updo. She seems like a hard worker.  
“Oh Hell no.” Michael steps back onto Don’s shoes. Keith Willis stands up from his desk, scattering papers across the floor, his face reddening. Michael saw him across the room at the Christmas party, but didn’t speak to him. He’s a short man, but stocky and seems to go from zero to sixty at the drop of a hat. “No. There’s no way I am sharing my office with the lunatic.” He jabs an accusatory finger in Michael’s direction.

Maria is up from her own desk in a flash, doing her best to contain the situation. “Mr. Willis, you were told-”

“And I told Don that I wouldn’t have it.” Willis postures. Michael shrinks back behind Maria and Don. He can feel people opening their doors to see what all the fuss is.

Don postures right back. “Well I am telling you as your boss, that you will.” He rests his hand against Willis’s desk, leaning forward right into his face.

“He’s dangerous and I’m first in the line of fire. No. Absolutely not, under no circumstances.” Willis’s nostrils flare. Michael can hear heels clacking along the floor behind him.

“Well there’s a very simple solution to this.” Don leaves the room.

“What’s going on he-” Before Peggy can finish asking the question, Don is back. He slams a cardboard box down on Willis’s desk.

“Pack up your things and get out. Willis, you’re fired.”

“Hey! Hang on a second. You can’t fire me I’ve worked here-”

“You won’t work with Mr. Ginsberg, that’s fine. Work someplace else. He’s a far better copywriter than you are. Decision made.” Willis splutters. “Pack up your things before I call security.” Willis doesn’t bother. He’s out like a flash, storming towards the elevator still raging. Don steps out onto the main floor. “Does anyone else have a problem?” There’s silence. “No? Good. Get back to work. Show’s over.”

Michael isn’t sure when Peggy put her hand in his, but he squeezes it and lets go. She steps forward and slides Willis’s name card off the door. “He was always an asshole, don’t worry about it.”

“Percy, get over here.” A man Michael recognises gets up off a sofa and trots over at Don’s call. He’s younger than Michael, probably not long out of college, with a shock of ginger hair. “You wanted an office. You got one. Congratulations.”

“I… Err… Thank you.” Don shrugs and walks off. Peggy disappears back into her office. For a moment, Michael, Maria and Jack stand there in silence. Then Jack breaks. “Well, that’s not how I envisioned getting an office.”

Michael chuckles, then Maria and finally all of them are cracking up. Michael rubs a hand over his face. “God.” He shakes his head. “I think I can get along with you two.”

\--

The first team-meeting that Michael’s called in for is about, of all things, nail-polish. He’s pleasantly surprised to find that creative has a lounge again, sort of. It’s more like the breakroom the office outgrew. There’s a weird kitchenette with nothing in the cupboards and an odd assortment of mis-matched furniture. It’s not really big enough for all of them, but they squeeze in. Kurt ends up sitting astride the arm of a sofa next to Michael, half way in his lap. It’s uncomfortable. Michael’s trying his best to maintain a professional distance and not let on what’s going on, but Stan’s got his eyebrow up. Michael frowns until he stops making that face.

Peggy’s running the show. Don just sort of looms in the doorway. “So, Natural Wonder wants to fight the bare-nail trend we’re seeing at the moment.” She places a crate of tiny, colourful bottles on the table and Annette squeals with excitement. “Yes, we get to try them out. There’s sixty colours in this range. We’ve got to figure out how to make women wear them.”

Ed’s hand goes up. “Shouldn’t you and Annette be working on this one…”

Peggy sighs, rolling her eyes in Stan’s direction. “We’re all working on this one Ed. This is a big campaign and it’s going to be a difficult sell. You worked on nylons and you don’t wear those either. Alright, ideas. Have a look, have a play, we’ll just bounce some things around for now.”

A few minutes later, Annette is blowing on her hot pink fingernails. “Well I tell you one thing. It’s not quick drying.” She spreads her palms out like they’re webbed. “But it looks like I won’t need a second coat…”

Peggy scribbles that down, dutifully. “Okay, well, that’s something. Anyone?”

“Smells like you could get high off this stuff?” Stan offers. Peggy doesn’t bother writing that down.

Kurt takes hold of Michael’s left hand and starts painting his pinky finger a deep shade of blue. For a minute, Michael doesn’t even notice. He’s alerted by Ortiz and Smitty’s giggling. “Hey!” Michael pulls his hand away, smearing the colour and making Kurt pout. Stan folds his arms, stern father mode activated.

“Wait… I think that’s a good idea actually. How else are we going to get to know the product?” Peggy says.

“Seriously? We’re all going to sit here and paint each other’s nails?” Ed’s gobsmacked.

“Meredith’s got some acetone in her drawer. We can take it off later,” Annette offers.

Stan reaches for an emerald green bottle and tugs Peggy’s hand onto his knee. Michael reluctantly gives his back to Kurt. Jack offers Smitty yellow but he insists on red. “Ohh, what if we had one girl and her dress changes colour to match the polish. And there are patterns, like tie-dye and things, you know, fabulous technicolour…” Annette throws the idea out there while she puts tiny white spots on the pink.

Don’s grinning wider than Michael can recall having seen him do sober. “Ok, I have a meeting. Enjoy finger painting, kids.”

\--

When Michael gets home, his fingernails look like a Mondrian painting. He’d forgotten to take it off altogether. In the afternoon he’d had to have a very strong coffee, just to stay with it. He’s so tired lately – the meds, he thinks – but his sleeping is all over the place. Some nights he’s like a corpse and some nights it comes in tiny bursts. He can already tell tonight is going to be the latter. It’s easier than the night terrors that have happened a couple of times.

Peggy brushes his hair away from his forehead and presses a hand against his forehead. “Hmm, you’re running a little hot…”

“It’s fine. Dr. Mayhew said it’d take a month or two for my body to adjust.” Spaghetti meows his agreement. Michael picks him up and clutches him to his chest, scratching his ears before letting him go again. Neither Peggy nor Stan look particularly convinced.

Stan changes the subject. “We were going to go buy some paint on Saturday. Get those creepy birds out of your room. What colour do you fancy?”

Michael wrinkles his brow. “I… It’s up to you. It’s your apartment.”

“It’s your room,” Peggy’s smiling but Michael looks away, fidgeting.

“Something neutral, I guess. Then you won’t have to change it.”

“Change it for what?” Peggy’s smile twitches.

“Y’know. When you have- I mean, you’re a young couple and… I’m gonna start saving up now. Get out of your hair. Then there will be room…” Stan sighs. Peggy looks at Stan. “Well, that’s what you do next, right?”

“I don’t know…” She’s very quiet, all of a sudden. “We haven’t talked about that.”

Stan’s arms are folded again. “Do you want to move in with Kurt?”

“What? No! I mean, he’s not my boyfriend. It’s not like that. We’re just…” Michael looks Stan in the eye, not sure why he feels so hurt. “We’re just screwin’ around.”

“Seems pretty serious to me,” Stan snaps.

“Stan!” Peggy intervenes before it gets out of hand. “Look, Michael. There’s no rush for you to move out. We like having you here. You’re part of the family.” She scratches behind Michael’s ear like he’s Spaghetti. It makes him shiver a little. He pulls himself away.

“I don’t wanna get between you guys. That’s what I’m doing right? I mean, let’s be honest, when’s the last time you two had sex?”

“Saturday,” Stan drops his arms. “I’m sorry. I know I get mad. I just… I worry about you. I want you to be happy. Are you happy?”

Michael wants more than anything in the world to kiss him right now, but he just slouches back against the sofa, defeated, and shakes his head. “It’s strange. It’s so easy and it’s the hardest thing in the world to watch you two be together.”

Peggy’s fingers tangle up with his. She rests his head on his shoulder. “Michael…” Her voice is as soft as her skin as she brushes her thumb over his cheek and the she’s tilting his chin up to look at Stan and Stan’s got that expression on his face again, the one that gives him butterflies and then Stan’s lips brush against his, uncertain just as Michael is squeezing Peggy’s hand with his own uncertainty. “Oh,” she whispers, turning her mouth to Michael’s neck so he can feel the vibration against his skin. 

He closes his eyes. He can’t bear to watch the car crash happening around him. Stan’s mouth closes over his and Michael is frozen. It lasts just a second and Michael doesn’t breathe. Then there’s another mouth, less bristly. He can feel the lipstick, just as brief. “Mikey…” There’s a deep groan. “God.” When he opens his eyes, everything is going to be different. He trembles. Stan’s palm folds over his. He can feel their rings pressing into his skin.

He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. They’re looking at each other. “What just happened?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> erm... so apparently this chapter just wanted to happen asap.


	11. House boy knows he's doing alright

It’s Friday, and things are exceptionally awkward. The three of them have only been in the same room together at work and even then, not alone. Michael has been sleeping at Kurt’s, coming back late and leaving early, going on evening visits to Morris’s. Frankly he’s not sure what Peggy and Stan have been doing but they seem cagey around each other too. Even Spaghetti seems alarmed, and all the while Michael’s brain can only focus on paint colours. “Green.” Kurt says decisively when Michael finally cracks and word vomits all over him.

God, he should be telling all this to Dr. Mayhew but then how does he even begin to explain himself? And now he’s worried about what his therapist is going to think which is exactly what she told him not to do… Michael’s no longer sure if he’s talking out loud or not. “Fuck. I’ve ruined a marriage.” Kurt glances over his paperback – The Edible Woman, strange title. 

“No, I have. Twice. They’ll be fine, trust me.” He makes Michael a coffee. It’s much stronger than he’s used to and entirely without milk, so Michael burns his tongue. He has a cigarette while he watches Kurt read. Kurt is very methodical about it; you can see him scanning line by line. It’s strange that everyone else at work seems to think of him as chaotic when Michael sees nothing but logical progression. If you want chaos you go to Stan. Kurt finally dogears a page and leans over, his hand falling at the top of Michael’s thigh.

Michael bites his lip. “I… I’m sorry- the new meds… I can’t-” He feels so pathetic and helpless.

Kurt sighs and spreads himself out, his feet in Michael’s lap. “Why are you here?”

“I’ll go. I’m sorry, I’ll go-” Kurt pushes him back into his seat, his face fixed in that frown that Michael can never understand the meaning of.

“You’re a grown man. Stop letting everyone else tell you what to do.” Kurt rubs his nose with his thumb like he has a headache coming on. “I have boyfriends sometimes, but only if we can see other people too. That’s how I like to do things. It’s one way of doing things. People have different ways…” He’s gesturing but Michael’s struggling to follow what he’s saying. Kurt is sighing like he’s Eeyore. “How do you think marriage works? Do you think all of them are the same? Have you asked them about theirs? Why are you looking at me like this? Do you need me to draw a picture?”

\--

Michael doesn’t feel any more enlightened about his predicament when he leaves Kurt’s, just with the pervasive feeling that everyone Kurt knows is some kind of deviant.

It’s Saturday morning. He stops in a hardware store and comes out with a couple of tins of orange paint, the kind that makes you feel warm just looking at it. By the sound of it, when he makes it in, Peggy and Stan aren’t up yet. He throws down some newspapers, shoves on one of the old shirts that Morris brought him (it’s pale yellow and white striped – why did he ever own this?) and sets about ripping creepy storks off the walls. It takes about ten minutes before he can hear Stan in the doorway behind him.

“Mikey what are you…?” His question is punctuated by a yawn. It’s not even that early. “Okay. You want a hand?”

Stan assists with a piece of toast in his free hand. They let the radio do the talking. Peggy doesn’t make an appearance for another two hours, when the room is finally bird-less and on its way to becoming orange. By the time she does, she’s kitted out in overalls. Stan’s elected to paint in pyjama pants and nothing else. “Nice colour.” She spots Leonard on Michael’s bed. “Aww, it matches Leonard’s mane.”

Honestly, Michael hadn’t noticed. He just sort of nods, grateful that they don’t seem to hate him as much as he’d prepared himself for them to.

Stan takes the brief pause as an opportunity to put a big orange handprint on Michael’s ass. The shirt is so long his jeans are in no danger. “Hey!” As Michael whips round to glare at Stan, Peggy puts a handprint on his clean ass-cheek. His paint-roller clatters to the floor and Michael feels something in him give. His eyes are watering.

“Oh, fuck. Hey, hey. Mikey. It’s cool. It’s cool.” Stan wraps a big arm around him and Peggy is shushing him, stroking the side of his face, getting paint in a stray lick of hair. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. You don’t like it, I’ll stop. We’ll stop, won’t we Peg?”

Peggy nods and Michael’s full on crying now, ugly tears, trying to make himself stop. He’s trying to talk and nothing will come out so he just gives in and kisses Peggy on the mouth, good and hard and smearing paint over her shoulders. He’s never kissed anyone like this, not even Kurt, pressing himself into her body, drowning out that voice in his head that wants him to shrink away into nothingness. It’s a strange, animal feeling.

Something satisfied within him, he’s able to bring himself back under control. He wipes the back of his wrist over his face. “Is it all screwed up? Please don’t let it be screwed up because I don’t think I can keep not doing that…” Stan lifts him off the floor effortlessly and mashes his mouth against Michael’s just as forcefully, pulling Michael’s legs around his hips. Then he’s setting Michael down on the newspapers, their mouths still joined and Peggy is laughing and yelling at them not to get paint on the furniture as Stan yanks her down to the floor too.

\--

The weekend is… Interesting. They don’t have sex, but Michael does sleep in their bed. Peggy is a restless sleeper, constantly yanking the sheets away from everyone else, while Stan’s more of a hugger. He draws Michael in tight to his chest and his arms lock in place like a straitjacket. Michael’s still not sleeping so well, but enjoys being there between them. He manages to shuffle Stan’s arms down to his waist so he can hold Peggy’s hand. She doesn’t seem to like to be touched any more than that when she’s sleeping.

He does get a couple of hours sleep on Sunday, more crashing than much else. They spent all of Saturday painting and Sunday trying to pretend everything is normal when Anita unexpectedly drops by after Church and end up eating take out and drinking wine. Honestly, it feels much the same as before, just with more kissing. When he wakes up on Monday morning to the sound of Peggy’s alarm, he’s half-hard and all he can think is thank fuck that’s not permanent.

\--

Despite Stan’s protests that there’s definitely time for a quickie in the shower (“I am not having sex for the first time standing up and on a timer”), it’s a normal workday. They take a cab up to McCann and step into the office and have to keep their hands off each other. Kurt keeps looking at Michael ponderously. When they have a moment alone in the break room, Kurt asks if he needs a new fuck buddy. “I guess…” He claps Michael on the shoulder congratulatorily and wanders back to his office with his ridiculously strong coffee. 

That’s when Bob Benson appears in the doorway like he hasn’t been gone two years, same suit, same too-big smile. Michael rubs his own face to see if Bob disappears. Nope, definitely Bob. “I thought you were up in Michigan?”

“I thought you were in hospital.” Bob grasps Michael’s elbow. “Good to see you Michael. Things fell through at Buick, so I called Joan and she called in a favour. What can I say? I missed New York.” He’s far too cheerful for a man that has bags under his eyes. Michael pours him a cup of coffee. “Thank you. I’m glad you’re back to being yourself.”

“Mhmm.” Michael is rapidly gaining a reputation in creative for being level-headed, which isn’t something he’s used to. He’s just learnt when to keep his mouth shut, is all, what not to talk about. He gets the feeling that Bob has known how to do that a lot longer. There’s always something that Michael feels is on the tip of his tongue about Bob. “Back in accounts, right? You’re such a people pleaser.”

“I don’t have the brains for what you do.” Bob slips his empty hand into his pocket.

“I don’t believe that for a second, Bob.” Michael looks down at his still-painted fingernails, then goes to ask Meredith for her acetone.

\--

Creative is swamped trying to deal with this nail polish campaign and by two o’clock, everyone’s stomachs are grumbling but nobody except Don dares to go for lunch. They’re going round and round in circles, and Michael’s beginning to understand what Don meant about the creative team at McCann – all the heavy lifting is being done by Peggy, Stan and Ted. Michael’s never had two thoughts to rub together about Ed and Mathis. Kurt doesn’t play well with others and Smitty’s main capacity seems to be as Kurt’s ringer. He’s still deciding what he thinks about everyone else, but so far Annette seems ditzy, Ortiz seems lazy and Jack seems like a walking ball of anxiety.

Bob arrives with sandwiches, which is a welcome distraction and so like him that Michael has to shake his head. There’s no way anyone else in accounts would voluntarily spend their lunch break in creative. There’s the obvious round of questions from all the ex-SC&P staff, but other than that Bob seems content to let them work around him and no one’s in a hurry to turn down free food. Annette seems very enamoured, but then he catches Kurt looking at Bob with his head tilted at an ever so slight angle too.

Michael lets Kurt repaint his nails while he spit-balls some taglines. Nothing’s really working and Michael’s brain is whirring away on his solo campaign instead. No one goes anywhere except the bathroom until half-past six and even then, Michael and Stan can’t persuade Peggy out of the door until after seven.

He bumps into Bob on the way out. “Going home together?” He squints at Bob, but there’s no hint of a raised eyebrow, just that absolute sincerity that Michael has to believe there’s something beneath.

“I live with them, Bob. Keep up.” As much as he talks like this, Michael really does consider Bob a friend and he is glad he’s back. At one time, Michael could count on one hand how many people gave a damn about him and Bob was his ring-finger. “So what went wrong at Buick?”

“Oh, you know. Downsizing, shake ups. The usual stuff.” Michael catches a flicker of something tugging at the corner of Bob’s mouth. “I never should have gone to Detroit, really. I should have come straight here. But what are you going to do?”

Michael pats Bob’s arm. It’s raining hard outside and Bob puts his umbrella up, leaning it mostly over Michael. There’s not enough room under Peggy’s for all three of them. “You know, you should come round for dinner one night, Bob. I did miss you.”

\--

They’re barely in the door when Stan is pulling Michael out of his wet clothes, Michael’s feet sliding in the puddles he’s making on the floor, his hair sticking to his forehead with the damp. “God, Mikey. I need to see you.” Stan has him by the belt loops and he can hear Peggy chuckling as she sits herself down on the couch to watch the spectacle. “I wanted to drag you into the closet. You’ve got no right to drive me crazy at work.” Stan’s lips make their way down Michael’s neck, starting at the crux of his jaw. When he makes it to Michael’s collarbone, he drags his teeth across the skin, intent on writing his name. “Mine. Mine, not Kurt’s.”

“Don’t eat him all, baby.” Peggy’s pouring herself a glass of red. She kicks off her heels and puts her feet up on the edge of the coffee table, legs wide apart. Michael can’t stop looking, not even with Stan’s hands on his bare stomach, unbuckling his belt and Peggy’s looking right back, the ice of her eyes making him shiver, then the cool air on the back of his legs, Stan’s big, firm hand wrapping around his cock.

“Isn’t he pretty, Chief?” Stan’s fingers trail over Michael’s skin like he’s reading braille in every hair and scar, where he’s brutal angles and where he’s soft, delicate flesh. His thumb traces the swell of Michael’s lip and Michael opens his mouth, lets him touch his teeth, his tongue. There’s this pleasant, static feeling in the back of Michael’s head like his brain’s finished it’s programming for today.

“Let me see him.” Michael gets on his knees in front of her, rests his head on her calf while she strokes his hair, his fingers following the ladder in her nylons up into her skirt. He kisses the side of her knee. Peggy slides towards him, her skirt bunching up beneath her. Stan groans somewhere behind him. She nods, a hum in her throat as he follows the ladder again, this time with his mouth.

Kurt couldn’t show him this. He catches the fabric with his teeth and it tears itself open. There’s humidity coming off her in waves. Her panties are soft between his fingers. He strokes the material between thumb and forefinger, his tongue running over the elastic at her thigh. His knuckle brushes against her folds and he can hear her gasp, distantly. He pulls her panties to one side and just looks for a second.

He’s never seen a woman like this before, a diagram once, and a couple of crude drawings, but not in the flesh, not even in a photograph - he’s never been invited to that boy’s club. It’s like a strange flower. Peggy’s hair is thick and coarse. He wraps his hands around her thighs and puts his mouth on her. It’s explorative, hesitant, like mapping out uncharted territory – he starts with the coastlines and works his way in. She lets him take his time, spending several long minutes before it starts to do anything for her. When his tongue flicks against her clit, she grabs tight hold of his hair and pushes him down against her, so he wraps his lips around it and sucks, just like Kurt showed him how to do with a cock. She howls and arches her back as far as her spine will allow, dripping down Michael’s chin. He doesn’t think she’d let him up if he wanted it. Her legs start to shake around him and Michael can’t see but he just knows that Stan is touching her too. When her orgasm hits, she bucks wildly, like a horse trying to shirk its rider and Michael slips his tongue inside to feel her pulsing.

He sits back on his legs and blinks up at the two of them. Stan’s still wearing his pants. He wipes Michael’s chin with his hand and licks Peggy’s juices off his fingers. “We could put him under your desk. I’d love to see you squirm.”

“Don’t give me ideas.” Peggy’s eyes are heavy-lidded. Even her voice is relaxed now she’s sated. She strokes Michael’s cheek.

Stan pulls Michael up into his lap. His teeth are on Michael’s neck again as he works Michael’s cock like he’s done it a thousand times. Somehow Stan knows exactly how Michael likes to be touched, rocking up against his ass with every twist of his hand. “But I have so many ideas, Chief. I wanna try them all.” Michael buries his face in the crook of Stan’s neck and comes, whimpering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sexy sexy fun times


	12. Take me, for a meanwhile I'm still thinking

Michael still isn’t used to waking up between them. Every morning it surprises him that he’s here and he has to press himself back against Stan, squeeze Peggy’s hand, just to prove that it’s real. On Saturday morning, Stan’s already awake. He kisses the back of Michael’s neck, wraps a meaty hand around Michael’s cock to stroke him to full hardness. They’ve been taking it slow, but that doesn’t stop Stan from jumping Michael’s bones at all available opportunities. They’ve had to lay down some ground rules about what he isn’t allowed to do at work. As exciting as the risk of getting caught is, it’s good that Kurt walked in on them making out like teenagers in the men’s room and not anybody else. Stan has the highest sex drive of anyone Michael’s ever met. He’s not sure how Peggy managed him all by herself for so long.

 

“Mornin’.” Stan’s voice is gravelly first thing and it makes Michael shiver. The next thing Michael knows he’s turned over on his stomach with Stan pressing him down into the mattress, grinding shamelessly against his ass. He nips at Michael’s ear. “You weren’t gonna get up, were you? ‘Cause you’re not getting out of this bed today.”

 

Maybe it’s just that it’s early and that Peggy isn’t awake yet, or maybe it’s just that Michael’s head is heavy with all these questions it feels like there’s never a good time to ask, but he twists his neck to kiss Stan gently on the cheek and extracts himself. He sits with his back against the head board, the blankets pooled over his crotch. He still wears a shirt to bed a lot of the time and it’s rucked up, exposing a sliver of his stomach.

 

“What’s up? Too fast? Not in the mood?” Michael glances over at Peggy. She’s curled away from them both, her face all screwed up like she’s really concentrating. He strokes his fingers through her hair affectionately.

  
“How’d I get so lucky, huh?” It occurs to Michael that he doesn’t know what to do with happiness. There’s this strange lightness to it, like a dream you’re trying not to wake up from. If you hold it too tight, it’ll break. Stan sits beside him, grasps his hand, and Michael rests his head on his shoulder, rubbing his thumb back and forth over Stan’s. “I thought I was gonna die there.”

 

“The hospital?” The hospital, the office, his room back in Morris’s apartment, the orphanage. Michael’s never honestly believed he was getting out of anywhere alive. He’s always surprised in the morning that he still exists, prodding his face in the mirror to check he’s really himself and not just a spectator. “Do you honestly think I’d have let you?”

 

He shrugs his shoulders. “There’s a lot of stuff I didn’t know about you.” Try as he might, Michael’s an open book. People seem to know him better than he knows himself, for the most part. Maybe that’s changed lately – it’s hard to tell. “I thought you’d hate me, or worse, that you’d pity me.”

 

Stan pats Michael’s knee. “No. I think maybe I envied you a little.” Michael’s not sure what that means. “You know, there was this kid in my high school class, Johnny. My best friend, I guess. We were on the baseball team together. He lived a couple of doors down, knew each other ever since we were babies. His parents were real good to me after my mom left… And we used to fool around some. Everybody did it with somebody. You just didn’t mention it.”

 

Michael furrows his brow. In those blurry memories of being back at the orphanage, he remembers how the older boys would climb into each other’s beds, bumping about in the dark long after lights out. Maybe it was just that he’d never really had any friends. “And one night in my sophomore year, my old man comes back from the boozer-” Stan’s hardly ever spoken about his father, but Michael gets the impression. “And the stupidest thing is we weren’t even fooling around that time and I had my first girlfriend, this big-titted cheerleader Angie, but he comes in screaming about not having fucking fags in his house and he hauls Johnny out the door and beats the crap out of me. I mean, he broke my fucking pitchin’ arm. Like he hit me before, but this was…” He trails off.

 

“Stan…?” Michael squeezes his hand. Stan looks like he’s somewhere far away.

 

“Hmm?” He blinks at Michael, like he forgot what he was saying. “Oh… Well, I lived with my Auntie after that. Only saw him twice, maybe. Johnny didn’t wanna speak to me either though. I think his parents gave him hell for it too. I fucked a guy in college one time, but I was chicken shit. Never called him.”

 

“You told me all about it though, didn’t you baby? How tight his ass was. How you came so hard you thought you were gonna die.” Peggy is propped up on her elbow, more composed than Michael’s ever seen her first thing in the morning.  She yawns and stretches out like a cat. Stan gives her the finger and she mock gasps. “And to think I let you fuck me in the ass. My husband, what a gentleman.”

 

Michael’s skin is turning pink, creeping up from his collarbone all the way up to his ears. He’s never felt so dirty in his whole life and all he’s done is sit here. “Uh…”

 

Peggy pushes a finger against his lips to shush him. “What do you think? Think he can take it?”

 

Stan hums, thoughtful. He takes a fistful of Michael’s hair, turning his head until their eyes meet. “I dunno. Can you, Mikey?”

 

It’s so fast. No sooner has Michael nodded than he’s on his stomach again, the bedsheets flung into some far corner of the room and Stan is palming his ass, squeezing and kneading. He reaches for Peggy’s thigh but she smacks his hand away. “No. Not yet. I want to see him fuck you first.”

 

He can feel Stan’s breath on the back of his legs and Stan’s rearranging him so he can get at his dick. “What are-?” He doesn’t finish his question before Stan pulls his cheeks apart and licks a long wet stripe from the head of his cock, past his balls up to his asshole. Michael yelps in surprise and grasps the bars of the headboard. “Stan!”

 

“What? Kurt never tell you about this?” Michael’s dick is definitely interested and dribbling into the mattress and Stan’s breath makes all the hairs on Michael’s thighs stand up.

 

“No, I-”

 

Stan’s palm slaps against Michael’s skin, reddening his ass cheek. There’s still a twinge of jealousy whenever Stan thinks Michael and Kurt are being too chummy. Before Michael can process a response, Stan’s mouth is on him again, his eager tongue pressing against Michael’s hole. It’s like nothing Michael’s ever felt before. He locks eyes with Peggy, who’s smiling at him knowingly as his mouth falls wide open. He makes a keening sound as he gives, Stan penetrating him with just the tip of his tongue, and buries his face in his arms.

 

“Look at me, baby,” he hears Peggy say softly but he can’t. It’s so much. Stan’s thumb strokes over the head of his cock in concentric circles and Michael’s trying desperately not to come, not this soon, not before they’ve even got to the main event. Peggy takes a fistful of his hair and wrenches his head back. “Let me see those eyes.” They’re watering with it and Peggy’s mouth seals over his lips, swallowing all that delicious noise.

 

His thighs shake, his mouth coming out of alignment. “I can’t- It’s-” Stan’s thumb traces all the way up until it’s nudging right there beside Stan’s tongue, all thick and blunt and Peggy has hold of his chin again, her lips parted ever so slightly as she studies Michael’s face.

 

“Go on.” His toes curl and Michael’s vision goes white for a second from the sheer force of his orgasm and Stan’s making these sloppy, wet noises, his tongue sliding out and down Michael’s twitching cock, Michael’s cum spurting over the mattress. Peggy holds his head up all the way through it and only when the quaking subsides does she lets him flop face down on the bed.

 

He’s boneless, not a thought in his head. A few moments pass and Michael can hear movement but stays where he is, letting Peggy stroke his hair and tell him what a good boy he is. Then Stan’s behind him again and his fingers are cool and slick, stroking over his ass. He kisses the back of Michael’s knee. “You’re all relaxed now. You just say if you’ve had enough.”

 

Michael’s like a doll. He lets them move him where they like until he’s on his back, his head in Peggy’s lap while Stan slides the first finger in nice and easy. He comes out of his daze to the sensation of Peggy’s nails, acid green, raking over his stomach. They catch on his singular nipple as she works her way up. She rolls it between her fingers, tugs until it’s red under her attentions. “Our beautiful boy. We’re going to ruin you.”

 

His cock is still soft but it twitches at the tone of Peggy’s voice, his breath hitching. Stan must have seen it, because Michael can feel a second finger pushing relentlessly beside the first and oh god, Stan has such big, broad hands there’s no way it will go. Stan’s free hand presses down against Michael’s stomach to stop him arching up. “Stay there. You trust me, don’t you?” Michael squeaks his ascent and the second finally breaches.

 

“Hnnck- Full-” Peggy shushes him with her lips just as Stan crooks his finger and _oh,_ Michael can feel the blood draining down into his cock again. It makes him a little light-headed. Stan teases, brushing against that magic spot just for a second, then straightening his fingers and scissoring them. Stan’s mumbling about how tight he is, but Michael misses the third going in entirely because Stan’s rubbing inside him just right and Michael’s hips start bucking wild. “Please- Somebody, please- More.”

 

“Easy tiger,” Stan chuckles, biting at Michael’s thigh. “That’s how you end up with my whole hand in you.” Is that even…?

 

Michael can’t keep hold of the thought because Stan’s sliding his fingers out and Michael makes a noise like he’s wounded. Stan slides his hands under Michael’s knees, getting the left one sticky with lube, and kneels up, lifting Michael’s hips to where he wants them. Michael looks down and hiccoughs. Stan’s cock is big and broad just like the rest of him. “Can I, Chief? Can I let him have it?”

 

“Hmmm.” Peggy strokes Michael’s cock like you might a favourite pet. “I guess so.”

 

Stan takes a second to slick himself up and then Michael can feel him. If he thought Stan looked big, he feels bigger. There’s a twinge of pain and he screws his face up. Peggy strokes the side of his face and Stan stills his hips but it’s over as soon as it happened. “Don’t you fucking stop, don’t you dare,” Michael snarls with all the menace of an angry kitten.

 

Peggy stifles a laugh with the back of her hand. “You heard him.”

 

It’s one long, slow push. “Mikey- Jesus-” Stan’s eyes roll back in his head, not that drowsy way they do when he’s high, but in time with his entire body. He rolls his hips like they’re waves slow and gentle, but building until he’s quaking like a proper southern evangelist. That little twinge there’s always been in his accent comes to the fore. “Fuck, Peg. Wish you could feel this.”

 

Michael has to remind himself to breathe. He’s not sure what beat he’s meant to move on, but that doesn’t matter because Stan takes hold of his jutting hip bones and shows him how to ride his rhythm. Michael’s hand goes for his cock but Peggy pulls it away, grasping both of his wrists with her hands. “Not yet.” He can smell how wet she is just from watching, his mouth so close he can almost taste her. There’s so much, so many hands. He shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to choose where to look. He’s sweating – or is that Stan’s sweat? Fuck, it’s both. He’s so full it’s like being stabbed and enjoying every second of it.

 

“Peggy- Peggy, PLEASE.” Everything in him is so wound up he feels like he’s going to crumple under the pressure. Stan’s thrusting is getting erratic, like a sudden jazz improvisation.

 

“Well, seeing as you’ve both been so good.” She grasps hold of Michael’s cock and she’s barely touched him before his orgasm hits like a freight train. He feels himself tighten around Stan and that’s enough to pull Stan over the edge with him. Stan howls, those last few thrusts as he pushes through it so rough Michael can feel his pelvis rattling before Stan collapses on top of him, panting.

 

“Fuck,” Peggy mumbles. She leans down to kiss Stan.

 

It takes Michael a good minute to start complaining that Stan is crushing him. “All the thanks I get, huh?” He pulls out carefully and rolls off Michael onto his back. “Christ Mikey. Kurt missed out.” He grabs a joint off the bedside table. “You mind?”

 

“Nah. I’m never moving again.” He’s laying in a gross puddle of bodily fluids, but Michael can’t bring himself even to shuffle to a dryer bit of mattress.

 

Peggy sighs and snatches the joint out of Stan’s hand the second he lights it. “One of you is going to eat me out right this second.” She slides a knee up. Her pussy is glistening. She takes a long drag. “Who’s it gonna be?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so there's definitely a dom!peggy, switch!stan, bottom!ginsberg element happening here and it wasn't entirely intentional but on we roll.
> 
> sorry this took so long. it's one big sex scene and i always get so distracted writing these and have to go... do things...

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I've written a fic in literally years, but I couldn't leave Ginsberg there. I could do with a beta for this - hit me up if you're interested.
> 
> Title from a Frank O'Hara poem.


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